an old man chasing rabbits

originally posted July 11, 2006
Went to visit Chris' father again in Massachusetts. He’s been in the hospital two weeks now with a severely infected foot. There’s been talk of amputation. He’s 85, a nursing home resident the past three years after a bad stroke. He’s morbidly depressed and wants to die. He hardly speaks and has stopped eating. He was sleeping when we entered the room. Though pale and weary-looking, he is still a bull. Breaking down that body will be no small task. There is solid meat and bone under that skin. His head a stone resting on a starched white pillow, his cheeks smooth, almost full. Chris stroked her father's arm until his eyes fluttered open. They were entirely black, all pupil. Richard raised his fingers hello, said he was “alright” when asked, then instantly retreated, staring at Chris with silent pleading eyes that spoke volumes. Richard was a Depression-era kid, the last of three brothers, a World War II vet, a door-to-door salesman peddling everything from vacuums to donuts. He lived on the road. “He has the heart of a stray dog,” Chris has said of her father. “Always on the move.” Richard closed his eyes again, his long-fingernailed hands twitching, his jaw and lips shifting, murmuring. Both Chris and I were thinking the same thing: hoping he might go deep enough this time to find lasting peace, to chase those rabbits into a soft, endless field.