It is 6PM and Papa is in a great mood! He is dressed, he’s been showered by the home health aide – which he described as the most humiliating moment of his life (of which I can’t believe) – and he’s shaved without nicking himself (with the aides help).

He lumbers slowly down the stairs, humming some old show tune…moon river?

“Papa!” he calls out to me. “Oopla, this cat, he goes crazy.” The cat races by his feet, by inches. “Eh, what’s going on?”

He makes his way to the kitchen, where I am cooking dinner. “Papa, this is a fantastic smell”. He closes his eyes and breathes in with extra aplomb. He smiles.

Without waiting for my response on anything, he chatters on for the next ten minutes. He covers the subject of grocery shopping, farming, Italian olive oil, winning the lottery, Vic’s barbecue, my daughter (the girl), young love, and winning the lottery. Winning the lottery is the glue of his thoughts.

“Papa, we will have a touch of, eh, you know…” He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows.

“You want some wine?” I move to pour us all a glass.

Papa comments on Vic outside at the grill. He comments on the birds at the feeder and the dogs begging for food at his feet. He comments on the grass and what I looked like last week mowing it on the John Deere. He’s never seen anything like it he claims, and laughs.

He makes his way to the French door to the back porch, he opens it and pokes his head out “Victor, you’re not burning it, are you?” He lingers with the door ajar.

“Papa, watch the cats” I remind him.

“Eh, what? Oh, yes, yes.” He closes the door, not fully latched and walks to the front door. I leave the boiling rice to close the french door more fully.

I hear the front door open. “Ah, what a beautiful evening. I love this time of day, no sun, but still warm air. It’s lovely.” I wait a few seconds, to see if he’ll close that door before we lose an animal out it. Nothing.

“Papa, do you want to sit outside?” I inquire.

“Yes? Oh, ok.”

I turn down the flame on the stove to help him outside, set up the cushions on the chair, get him settled. I return to cooking.

No less than two minutes later the door from the garage opens and Papa is back inside.

“Was it not good outside?”

“What? No, no it was nice, but it was too humid. The dampness…I don’t want to catch a cold.”

He wanders to the cabinet that is ajar. “Hmmm, these are nice.” He has a bag of chocolate covered raisins in his hand. A bag of candy I missed, when clean sweeping the house. Three nights ago, I had awoken to the sound of Papa downstairs. I called out, “Everything ok?”. He assured me he just needed a glass of water. The next morning I found a trail of white chocolate chips from the cabinet, across the kitchen floor, onto the rug near the steps. Papa was sneaking candy. Or anything sweet that passed as candy. At 2am. Papa has diabetes.

The next morning, I took a large grocery bag and threw everything I could find that had any sugar in it into the bag and hid it in basement near the pantry. I missed the chocolate raisins.

“You can’t have those, you know that.” I smile.

“Oh, why, papa?” He looks disappointed.

“Because you have diabetes.”

“Oh, really?” I’d think it funny, if he truly wasn’t surprised.

“Yes, and sugar makes it worse.”

“What a crazy thing papa, that an old man loses the ability to enjoy life.”

He heads toward the stairs. I call out and remind him I am cooking dinner. “Oh, ok. We eat soon?”

Like a child, he is everywhere, into everything, unfocused, talking nonstop. He is a distraction a minute. I bless the days his companion is here to contain him in some activity. I also bless the days he is happy.