Member-only story
Cappuccino time
I’m in the new Blue Bottle Cafe on Piedmont Avenue in a tony part of Oakland southeast of Uptown. I pick up my daughter from tennis in 28 minutes. I just saw my dad at his nursing home. He was in his jerry-chair, covered by a plaid blanket, his large hands limp in his lap. The curtain behind him was partially closed.
Cool, late May, post-rainy-day light spilled over him, highlighting his handsome bone structure, cheekbones that only show now.
It’s odd and poignant how after a lifetime of fighting (unsuccessfully) obesity, he’s now more handsome than ever in some kind of macabre way. I mean, he looks positively spectral. Sometimes when I first see him after a few days, I take a sharp breath of shock. Sometimes I even approach cautiously, checking his chest to make sure he’s breathing.
People ask, “How’s your dad?” I really appreciate it.
I always say, and have been saying for years now, “He couldn’t be worse, really.”
Yet, he’s so dear. He never did complain. Not once. Now, he really can’t since he can’t talk and hasn’t been able to for a while. Sometimes he manages to form words though. Today, as per usual, when he saw me, he began to chuckle softly. Sometimes when he chuckles now, no sound emerges at all, but I know from his face and the way his chest moves that he’s chuckling.
