A Broken Hero

                                                     (A tribute to my fallen hero)

     The key clinked in the lock as I let myself in. I made a little extra noise in the latch so as not to catch him unawares and entered into the open foyer. There he sat, his back turned, facing the seventy-two inch big screen completely oblivious to my presence. He did not have his hearing aids in. The TV volume was turned down; sound was not required for the Discovery Channel. Two wrinkly, grey elephants nuzzled on screen, their long noses curled around each other in amazing HD clarity.

     Kicking off my shoes I drew toward him. An evening glow from the streetlights outside the big picture window cast soft light in the semi-darkness of the condo’s living room, its only competition the subtle light-shifts from the over-sized TV screen.

     “Hi Dad.”

     I reached for the idle hands resting on his lap and waited for recognition. His head, slumped toward his chest as if weighted down from eighty-three years of knowledge, lifted toward me and a crooked grin lit up his face leaving deep, weather-worn creases on both sides of his mouth.

     “Hi Brenda.”

     I leaned in for a kiss then drew away and gazed into the steel-blue eyes where his soul resided. Those eyes were smaller now, shrouded by droopy skin flaps and enormous, bushy eye-brows. He could speak volumes with those eyes; today there was a shadow of concern and sadness.

     “Mom called me from the hospital, said she may have to stay in for testing. I thought I’d stop by and spend the night. Is that o.k.?”

     His head tilted in an almost imperceptible nod and he gripped my hands tighter. Dad had given himself to reticence in the last few years, words becoming largely inconsequent since the cancer had wreaked havoc on his body. He was not inclined to argue with me; he knew he couldn’t manage alone.

     “Can I make you some hot chocolate?”

     “Sure.” His dentures clattered, too big for his shrinking jaw.

     He reached for the TV remote and returned the screen to its primordial state of blackness. I moved through the condo flicking on lights and began scouring kitchen cabinets for the covert container mom used to store bulk hot chocolate crystals.

     I watched as dad slowly maneuvered his wheel chair toward the dining table adding to the busy grid-lines that blanketed the carpet. He had lost weight since the last time I’d seen him. His striped button shirt hung limp at the shoulder and lay in folds in front to compensate for his slouch. An obtrusive paunch just under his belt gave the false impression of weight; the colostomy bag would need to be emptied soon. His feet were still swollen and purple, the nails at the end of each toe like crudely cut corrugated cardboard. I wondered if my feet would look like that at eighty-three.

     Hot chocolate in hand we sat together at the table and reminisced. He suddenly fell silent.

     “Mom’s gonna be o.k.,” I reassured him, grasping his warm, strong hand. He looked down at his steaming mug and a single tear escaped his left eye, trickled along a laugh-line and disappeared.