Through His Eyes

Sadness pierced my heart as I watched my dad’s leathery hand reach out tentatively toward the pepper shaker I was trying to hand him. I questioned whether the injections he received quarterly in his eyes were stabilizing his macular degeneration.

“What do you think of the cradle I made for my great-grandbaby?” he asked proudly later in the meal.

“It’s lovely, Dad.” How he ran his electric saw and power drills, struck the hammer to nails in his workshop, I had no idea. Though he wore stiff hand and wrist braces while crafting, I recalled the drops of blood staining his shop floor.

An hour later, Dad hobbled out the side door to make his afternoon errand run. He’d stop by Lowe’s, the VA Center and the Shell station to have coffee with buddies. Then he’d park at our outdoor community center to take one slow, steady lap around the paved path while gripping his hand-carved cane.

Regrettably, my family will soon ask our strong-spirited, determined father to lay down his tools and car keys. We will overcome our reluctance to intrude, our fear of breaking his heart and our hesitancy to tell our father what to do.