Glimpses

I read an essay once about a Chinese American whose father was suddenly struck down by Alzheimer's.

The essay had a great passage on glimpses the author had of her father the way he used to be. There would be brief moments where a bit of her 'old' father would shine through the fog of senility. He'd smile like he used to; he'd use an old phrase; he'd ask for an old favorite meal; he'd hug her like he used to; and so on.

I read this essay shortly after my father's death in 2007. I was struck by how sometimes I will catch glimpses of my father - namely things I see that remind me so much of him that it's like he is right next to me. Or they trigger memories that are so strong that - at least momentarily - I'll be transported back in time to the moment of that memory with my father.

Whenever I see a red Kenworth semi on highway 32, I catch a glimpse of my father. Whenever I see an older Silverado crawling down the street, I think of Dad. Whenever I see an elderly person crossing the road or pushing a shopping cart, I hear my father's voice reminding me "that could be Jesus." Whenever I give our secretaries are hard time, I hear a hint of my father's joking tone under mine.

Yesterday when I was in Hugo's picking up groceries for Christmas Eve dinner, I had a particularly strong glimpse.

There was a woman helping an older gentleman pick out groceries. As it happened, they were always either just behind or ahead of me in every aisle. I couldn't help but smile and think of the Sunday evenings when Dad and I ran over to the Hugo's in Crookston to pick up groceries for the week.

Yesterday, I was over by the milk and eggs when I heard the woman ask, "Dad, do you need eggs?" He smiled at his daughter, and she smiled back. It was nothing more than that.

But for some reason, I gasped. Tears were in my eyes before I even knew what to do.

Now that I think more about this latest glimpse, I'm reminded of a moment on the way back from a spring break trip to Colorado 1994. For the past hour or so my father had been talking about a recent trip he had made to Texas for Hartz Trucking. He'd stayed over to visit his brother and sister and to hang around the area where he had grown up.

I knew it had been hard for him because while he was gone, Mom mentioned to me that it must be hard on him. He called every night while he was away, and Mom must have detected that something was wrong.

While we were driving, Dad began talking about visiting his parents' graves. My father wasn't one to show a lot of emotion. He'd laugh and joke and support us every single day, but tender emotion was not something I saw often. So when Dad said this line, I knew I'd never forget it. Dad said to me when talking about standing at his parents' grave, "I'd just give anything to be able to hold their hands again."

The sentence didn't linger. Dad said it and moved on. He was still talking, but that line resonated with me.

And standing there in Hugo's yesterday, wiping the tears away, I knew exactly how Dad had felt.