Thanksgiving 1987

There Pepaw sat, erect in his proud man posture, yet trying so hard to recede into his chair from the chaos in the family den. He seemed silent, taciturn, very still and contained. But his eyes were always active, following the movements of everyone in the room. He was taking it all in, like an emotional sponge. I could see his memory at work, recording and savoring the familiar rituals of family holidays. Over this love and laughter, a silent understanding was suspended. He knew, I knew, others probably knew, this would be his last good Thanksgiving before Alzheimer's set in.

But Micah and the girls played oblivious to any shadow. Running down the hall, teasing each other, tormenting the dog, the glass door forever sliding open and shut as they raced outside. Pepaw watched it all. Memaw and I leaning back on the sofa, gossiping away about nothing and everything.

He took in everything at dinnertime too, with its blessing of good fortune and kids kicking each other under the table. The steaming food, the iced tea, its warm familiarity was so important to him. Afterwards, sitting next to Memaw, her hand upon his knee, there was coffee without cream. And the long goodbyes that meandered out the front door, kisses on the cheek that made him smile so sheepishly.

These pictures I'm sure played over and over in his mind as he dozed. These were the last things that he saw.

Fred Russ: April 7, 1899 – February 9, 1989