I’m starting to dislike visiting my father. I hate myself for even thinking that way. But he’s changing too quickly. His dark eyes are the only part of him not losing their intensity. Weight is dropping, skin aging, hair thinning.
He’s dying. My father. My hero. Fading a little more every week.
Lucinda puts up a good talk, reeling off lists of activities he gets up to during the week. Swimming, physio, treatment, medications. She even took him along to her choir. Her round face beams with ruddy pride, her permed brown curls bouncing.
“Oh really?” I ask, failing to stop my eyebrows raising. “And how was the choir Dad?”
“Fine,” he grunted, shuffling in his chair, adjusting the blanket over his legs.
“He joined in!” Lucinda beamed. “Well, he didn’t sing but you clapped along, didn’t yo
