Archipelago

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Archipelago

My father is in his eighties and his mind has broken
away from the mainland to become an archipelago.
There are no longer bridges between his thoughts.
When I listen to him now, I am out in a boat, caught
in the waters between the many islands of his memory.

One moment, he is a boy talking about the milkman's
horse outside in the snow, describing to me the shoots
of breath escaping the horse's nostrils as it waits in
the December cold, harnessed to the wagon. Another
moment, he has just turned 20 and is a young sailor
at the time of the second war, certain that the man
in the blue shirt is a Soviet spy, that the nurses are
all irresistably in love with him, and that DiMaggio is,
despite playing for the hated Yankees, the greatest
ever to play the game.

Though there's a sadness in his Alzheimer's advance,
there is also a fascination, for I am witnessing pieces
of my father's life that connect me to times he lived
before I was born. Am I to take these archipelago
confessions to heart? I can't imagine why he would
lie to me now.

The man in the blue shirt suddenly takes on our joint
projections of evil, his eyebrows growing longer as
we look at him, his English sounding more fake with each
word he utters. One of the nurses comes by and takes
dad's temperature and blood pressure. The two of them
flirt back and forth, and as she leaves he lets her know
that he's available Saturday night. She doesn't say no.

Odd to hear him praise the Yankee Clipper. I remember
the years after DiMaggio, how fiercely my father and my
brother cheered for the National League champions to
dethrone the Bronx Bombers each October. Did dad
really appreciate DiMaggio? He's talking about him as
if his streak is still alive. He looks at me, seriously as
a teenager, asks, "Did he get a hit today?"

I've drawn the boat into the bay now, close enough
that I can look into his eyes, eyes which, though caught
in a body that has suffered an earthquake and is near to
its end, are younger than I've ever seen them. The
child is the father to the man.

"Yes," I tell him. "He doubled down the left field line
in the very first inning."

My dad smiles, shakes his head and lets out a sigh.
"That sonuvabitch is good," he says, just as the man
in the blue shirt passes, drooling, in the hallway.

I kiss him on the forehead and say good-bye. Outside,
I nod to the milkman as he returns to the wagon, sets
down the clinking tray of empty bottles, shakes the reins
and clucks "giyyup now" to the old horse.

I don't know anymore what time it is,
unless it's always.

DL