He wants to write a book. In this story, he is the able hero who rescues a missing Pastor’s daughter and solves the murder of JFK with his two best comrades from the Army while dealing with the Mexican cartels and Vladimir Putin. I told him I couldn’t wait to read it. So he wrote, about 15 pages and has just concluded the end of his novel. He is asking me to type it for him. And I will.
He wants a small slide-in camper for the new truck he wants to buy, so he can drive my mother back to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon again. He asks me to research it on the internet and is a bit disappointed when the closest place to purchase the one he wants is in North Carolina, the second is in Utah. We watch youtube videos about the camper and he shows me the inside. He points out where his grandson will sit to play his video games and which bed is mine. He asks me to research a Mazda dealership in the area and where he might be able to purchase a lift kit for the back so he can bring along his new motorized wheelchair.
He wants to play the guitar. He asks me to bring it with me next time I visit. He asks me to lay it across his lap and to hold it while he strums away. He wonders why his left hand won’t grip the neck like it used to. It’s okay, I play the chords he calls out to me and he hums along, eyes closed.
I love him. And I wish, more than anything, that he could be young again…