His large, square, freckled hands almost deftly opened the small “Brownie Bites” wrapper. I had got it started for him, worried that my 88-year-old father couldn’t manage the strength needed to get the initial tear going. I watched as he pulled apart the opening at the seam and reached in with his pointer and thumb to grab hold of one of the brownie bites.

I sat on the bed opposite his wheelchair in the small private room of the memory care facility. My daughter, Sanni, sat in the chair to the right. We watched as he managed to pull that bite out and then carefully tore the small piece in half, bringing a morsel to his mouth.

I glanced at my own hands resting in my lap before raising my eyes to search his face, waiting to see if he would glance at me. But he studiously had his attention on the brownie. as I examined his hands and my own, it immediately brought to mind all the stories (judgments really) I harbored about my hands–our hands.

I had inherited the same shape hands: largish, freckled, fat-finger hands with short nails (that I made worse looking because I chewed them.) My middle finger, just like his, had an unsightly lump on the inside at the top — a kind of hardened callus from holding pencils and pens. Oh, how I dreamed about having dainty, lady-like hands with slim fingers and long fingernails. In our family, we joke a lot about different inherited traits. My older daughter, Jaime, frequently bemoans that she got all the bad ones (gut issues from ny husband, PMS from me…), while the younger one, Sanni, always quips back, “but you got Mom’s boobs and Dad’s hands!” My husband and oldest daughter have lovely hands. Long-fingered elegant hands. When Jaime was born, the first thing I said was, “She has ‘piano-playing’ hands!”

I’ve often been self-conscious about my hands. I remember feeling wounded one time when my husband pointed to the Costco cashier’s hands and commented: Look at her hands, aren’t they beautiful? They were indeed, the hands I had always longed for.

These days, I’ve come to peace with my hands. I appreciate them as good strong, bread-kneading, rock-climber hands. Still, all these thoughts came rushing in as I gazed at the familiar square hands of my father.

He looked up, caught my eye, and smiled at me.

That was a smile, right? Did he recognize me?

The look was ever so brief as his face fell into its somber resting place once more. He stared out the window. Mom had warned me it took some time for him to begin to recognize her when she visited.

Sanni chatted cheerfully, filling the quiet room with sweet love commentary. She held his hand and showed him photos from the annual family calendars we had brought. He studiously looked at the photos. Periodically, my daughter and I would swap places, and I would try to catch my dad’s eye from a different perspective. Every now and again, he would beam, his eyes almost twinkling a little.

My father has a great beaming smile. The other night I dreamt of him and, in the dream, what stood out was this fantastic beaming smile. I’m not sure I ever fully appreciated it before. He has twinkly eyes (I get that from him too) that light up even more when he is mischievous — like when he secretly palms a stack of cookies meant for guests.

The Director of the facility came in and chatted with us, then left but brought in another caregiver who designed activities for the residents. I felt torn as each of these women drew my attention away from my father. I appreciated the care that they gave him and had written an article about how special it was to receive a Valentine’s Day card they had mailed me on his behalf. But, I didn’t want to focus on that right now.

I hadn’t seen my father in over a year and a half — since December 2019. I only had these few moments (30 minutes) to connect with him — to reach across the Alzheimer’s laden, Covid-ridden gap to see him and be seen. Dad was not ambulatory and couldn’t talk or hear anymore. I didn’t know how much of this visit was reaching him. Was he still in there? Did he know who I was?

The Director returned with my husband, agreeing that we could break the rules, just this once, and three of us could be in the room together with my father. She also said we could have a little more time since they had taken some of it up by chatting with us.

My husband, Jay, sat down opposite Dad. Dad glanced up and just beamed at him, clearly recognizing him. My husband took his hand. Dad wouldn’t let go right away. Was this goodbye?

The interaction seemed to shake loose a bit more memory in Dad, and he smiled more at each of us. The three of us filled the silence with our words while we watched him with his other brownie bite, catching his eye every now and again and seeing his face light up for a moment. He grew uncomfortable after a bit, squirming in his chair, grunting. We hailed a nurse, who told us he did that sometimes. It was okay, but it was also time to go.

I leaned over to hug him and noticed wetness in his eyes. Was he crying?

The thought gripped my heart; I had seen my father cry so few times. I felt my own tears pooling. As we were preparing to go, I found I couldn’t leave him alone in the room. I sent Jay and Sanni out to fetch a nurse who could stay with him after we departed.

After they left, Dad and I were alone in the room. I opposite him. He now gazed deeply into my face, into my eyes, searching almost. I held his solid gaze with my wet and dripping one.

We sat looking at each other for a long moment and then he reached his beautiful, large, freckled, fat-fingered hand up and deliberately, lovingly — oh so tenderly— stroked my head from the forehead all the way down the back of my head, cupping it as it moved around the bottom of my ear, stroking the side of my neck a little too.

It lasted but a brief moment, but communicated all that was unsaid between us.

**

We returned home to visit with my other daughter, Jaime. As we sorted and folded baby clothes, my attention again fell to my hands. I thought of how my dad must have carried me in his hands when I was born. I realized I’m lucky to have inherited my dad’s hands. My own broad, short, wide, freckled hands will always remind me of him and the sweet unexpected fatherly gesture that pierced the veil of Alzheimer’s and answered all my questions in one fell swoop, communicating cleanly, unequivocally, eternally: “I’m still here. I love you.”

(Originally published by Scribe on Medium)