Can you keep this up or will it consume you?

One of the last memories, from the ICU. You sit at his side, holding his hand when you can. The nurse comes in. He likes the nurses, and you love them for that. You will always love them for that. They ask a series of questions to check his mental capabilities. “What is your name?” “Where are you?” “How old are you?”

They don’t ask who the president is. That actually might have been funny. He would probably have squinched up his face and said something that involved “muthafucker” or his patented “goddamnsonofabitch.” He is — was — a lifelong Republican, but doesn’t recognize his party anymore. He almost registered Democrat to vote for Bernie Sanders.

Also, people wonder where you got your mouth.

The nurse comes in. She asks, “who is this?” She indicates you, on the far side of his bed. He swivels his head on his neck, like an owl.

“My daughter,” he replies, slowly, kindly, sweetly. Swiveling his head back around to her, as if in a dream, as if through water or gel or a slightly drunken haze.

“And what is her name?” she asks, the real test. You yourself wonder if he will pass.

His head swivels again, carefully enunciating each syllable of your full name, first, middle, and last, smiling the whole way. No joke on anyone, no test to pass. The fullness of knowing, the “of course” implied, the entirety of your life together, all the way back to your birth contained somehow in every note.