I got to see my dad today.

I had breakfast with him. I talked to him about life, as I fed him his oatmeal. His fried eggs, which he really didn't like. And his fruit. Cantaloupe and watermelon. He really liked the cantaloupe. His eyes were the same, but they couldn't see me. His face had that same mask to it. The one he had for the last few years. He struggled to find words, just like he used to. He asked me what my name was. He thought it was Melinda. I said Barbara. He apologized over and over. I told him it was okay. He thanked me for bringing him coffee. But it wasn't me who did it. I didn't correct him. I heard his voice again, and heard him talk to me again. And heard him say my name. He wore the same shirt. The same pants. The same shoes.

He had the same hands.

And for a little while, just a little while, I got to have breakfast with my dad. I have missed him so much. We talked. Just like we used to. I cried. But he didn't see me. He's blind. For just a little while I was whisked away, away from work, and I sat - alone -

with my dad.

With Dad.

I asked Mr. Burke if he had Parkinson's. He said, slowly, "Yes, how could you tell? Was I shaking?"

I said, "No, I can just tell. My dad had it."

Mr. Burke said he had had it for 3 to 4 years. He wanted to know how long my dad had it before he died. I said he had it for 8 years.

You could see the slow Parkinson's wheels turning - four more years left.

He said, "You must have loved your dad very much. You are very compassionate."

I said, "It was easy when it was my dad."

I finished feeding him. He couldn't see me cry. I hope he didn't hear it in my voice.

It was nice to have breakfast with my dad.