Copyright 2026 Dwayne Phillips
His eyes opened, closed, blinked, and finally opened. It was blurry. He signed. It slowly cleared.
“Oh,” he thought. “Same old place. This isn’t my home, but this is where they keep me. They have to keep me somewhere, and this is it.”
He saw a small bookcase holding his favorite books. He had read them all a time or two, or was it a dozen or two? It didn’t matter. He didn’t have the energy to open any of them. On top of the little bookcase were high school graduation photos of his six grandchildren. They were all 18 in the photos. They were all twenty or thirty something now. It didn’t matter their ages. In his mind they were still running around his house and playing with his wife or baking cookies or eating cookies. They were all happy and he and his wife were healthy and strong.
That was a long time ago.
Now he was in bed. It was a little single bed or something. His wife was gone for ten years. He was alone. No baking cookies, no running grandchildren. Just him in this little room-and-a-half they called an apartment. It was a place for old folks like him and it was more like a cell.
This was now.
It seemed like today was important or had something different about it. He couldn’t remember. There was a clock on a wall somewhere. There it was. The little hand was near the seven and the big hand was pointing upwards. There was a bright light shining on part of the wall. The edges of the light were straight with a dark line cutting the bright part into two pieces.
Oh. That’s the window. That’s the sun shining through the window. It must be around seven o’clock in the morning. The evenings were dark and he wasn’t in bed in the evenings. Or was he? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t seem to matter as most things these days just didn’t matter.
Roll over. Swing out the legs. “Swing” was a charitable verb. It wasn’t accurate. Anyways, his legs cleared the covers and became almost perpendicular to the edge of the bed. Bend the knees, put down the feet. There, his feet were on the floor. His toes wiggled and he felt the cheap little carpet that was glued to the wooden floor. They glued the carpet in place so it wouldn’t slip and he wouldn’t fall. That was the state of his balance. Everyone was afraid he would fall. He’d been walking upright since his first birthday, but no one thought he could do it any more.
Stand. Okay. Now what. He glanced back at the bed. Someone had laid clothing on the bed. He did last night. Maybe someone else did earlier this morning. It didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter.
The door of his apartment or cell or whatever it was called opened. In walked a young man.
“Good morning,” said the young man in a loud voice.
Why did everyone talk so loud? He could hear them just fine as long as they didn’t mumble. Most people mumbled most of the time. Didn’t anyone know how to speak any more?
The young man helped remove his pajamas and put on the clothes that were on the bed. The young man combed his hair and helped him into the bathroom to sit on the toilet. All that completed, the young man put a walker in front of him and walked slowly next to him until he sat at a breakfast table with a dozen old men and women.
The food wasn’t good. His wife never cooked mush like this. Why didn’t his wife cook for him any more? Oh yes. She was gone for ten years. He had cooked for himself for the next eight years, but the past two years he was here eating mush with a dozen old men and women.
Why was he here? Why wasn’t he home?
He was 84 years old. Or was it 85? The number didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter. He didn’t seem to have a purpose.
The windshield wipers went back and forth slowly. Another rainy day. It was the third rainy day in a row. That didn’t matter.
He was sitting in traffic, the first in line at a red light. He sighed. His wife patted him on the leg. She still did that. Thirty-five years of marriage and she still did that. He liked that.
“It’s green,” said his wife.
Her voice woke him from a daydream. He remembered the first time she patted him on the leg while he was driving. That was a long time ago. He was driving her to his parent’s house to meet his mother and father for the first time. She was nervous. He was more nervous. He was sure they would love her as she was beautiful and smart and polite and everything anyone would desire in a daughter-in-law. That was a silly thought because they had only been on three dates. Regardless, he knew she would marry him. At least he wanted her to marry him. That was all premature. He just wanted his parents to like her. They did. His Dad especially liked her.
“He’s always liked you,” he said.
His wife looked at him with her neck twisted a bit and her eyebrows asking him, “What are you talking about?”
“Dad,” he said. “Dad has always liked you. He’ll be glad to see you today. Me, okay, but you, really glad to see you.”
She smiled silently.
“I think he’ll be glad to see you,” he said. “I don’t know if he’ll show it. He doesn’t show much anymore. He rarely says anything. He just sits in a chair with the television on that TV Land or whatever channel that shows old programs all day and night. The attendants say he likes that channel. Anyways, he doesn’t show much anymore. Nothing seems to matter to him. One day is just like the next.”
“He knows,” said his wife. “Your Dad knows more than he lets on.”
“Maybe,” he said. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything with him anymore. He just doesn’t.”
He stopped talking as he couldn’t find the words to finish that thought.
“I wonder if we did the right thing,” he said. “He was doing pretty well at home, but he walked out at night in the dark. He could fall in the ditch and lay there all night and die of cold or something. It wasn’t safe for him to stay home. Right? We did the right thing, right?”
His wife hesitated. They had this conversation every time he visited his Dad. They had this conversation every time he came home from a lone visit or missed a visit or any occasion concerning his Dad.
“You love your Dad,” she said. “You’ve always done what you thought was best. You did the right thing.”
“Is everyone coming?” he asked.
“I believe so,” she answered. “They all know about it. I talked to everyone. They are all in town.”
He smiled a little. It was difficult to tell, but he felt like he was smiling.
“It will be good, won’t it?” he said. “I mean, Dad will see everyone. Dad will recognize everyone. Well, maybe he will recognize everyone. I mean he sees their pictures everyday. The pictures are right in front of him. He sees them. Right?”
“You’re Dad knows his grandchildren,” she said. “He may not always show it, but he knows them. They haven’t all been to his new place, but they know where he lives and they know they can visit any time. He knows them. It will be good for him.”
She said these things hoping they were and would be true. She said them hoping her husband would believe her. She said them hoping she would believe them. She didn’t know anymore than her husband. She didn’t know anymore than her husband’s Dad.
It was his 90th birthday, and they were hoping everyone would come and celebrate with him.
He opened his eyes. It was blurry. It became not so blurry. He heard the television. Andy was chiding Barney again. Andy always did that to make things right. Andy always made things right. He turned his head slightly to see Anday and Barney in the familiar shades of black and white. All was okay. It wasn’t right, but it was okay and that was enough.
He was sitting in a recliner. He was upright with his feet held a little off the floor.
His gaze raised a bit. There was the clock on the wall. The little hand was near ten and the big hand was more up than down. Ten o’clock. So what. It didn’t matter as nothing seemed to matter any longer.
The door of his apartment or cell opened and a young man entered.
“Doesn’t anyone knock?” he said. At least he thought he said it aloud.
Maybe he just thought it. Now and then people would say things in ear shot like, “He doesn’t talk much, does he?” and “He’s not talking today, but we are sure his mind is just going as much as ever.”
He had no idea why they said such things. He talked all the time. Didn’t he? Maybe. He wasn’t sure.
“Come on now,” said the young man. “We have somewhere to go this morning. It’s a big morning. Something special for you. You will like this.”
Why would he like this? What was special? It seemed like yesterday was a special day. Or was that this morning he thought it was special. Had he eaten breakfast? Don’t they serve breakfast around here? What kind of place is this where they don’t feed you regular meals and don’t tell you what day it is?
Stand. Hands on the walker. Move forward. A few steps. Out the door of his apartment or cell. Turn left. A long hallway was in front of him. He didn’t go down that hallway or did he?
Maybe it seemed on special days he went down that hallway. That was the only time. Was the attendant taking him to the barber down the hall? Maybe it was the mail delivery down the hall. He really didn’t care for the mail as it was just junk and the attendant always wanted him to read every word of the junk mail. Something about keeping the mind sharp as if being told he qualified for a new credit card would keep his mind sharp. He hoped it wasn’t a mail delivery day.
They eventually walked past the barber chair. The lamp there was off. It wasn’t a barber day. Oh no, mail day. But no. They walked past the wall where they placed the mail in little shelves. Why didn’t they put the mail in boxes that gave you some privacy? Anyone could come along and read your mail. That was a bad thing about this place. Anyone could read your mail.
“Here we go,” said the attendant as he stepped in front of him and opened a door. “In we go.”
Noise. Chatter. Blurred forms of people. The noise became louder. There was some clapping.
“What’s all this?” he said. At least he thought those words. Perhaps they didn’t come out of his mouth, but he thought the words with some vigor. What was all this noise and why was he in a room with loud people?
He heard two loud words spoken in an attempt at unison. Singing. The loud people were now singing. Maybe you could call it singing. It was awful, out of tune, out of cadence. Didn’t these people, whoever they were, know how to sing properly? Someone should straighten them up.
The singing stopped. Now the loud people were clapping. Surely they weren’t applauding their singing. That was terrible. No one should applaud that.
Someone came close to him. His vision was blurred, but the fog drifted away. The person clasped his forearm. It was, it was hard to make out the face, then it was obvious.
It was his son.
“Happy birthday Dad,” said his son. “Happy birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” said the son’s wife.
She put her arms on Dad's shoulders and kissed him on the cheek several times. Tears rolled down her face and mixed with the kisses.
Next was the elderly man’s daughter. She repeated the hug and kisses to accompany her, “Happy Birthday, Dad.”
The daughter’s husband couldn’t find the words, but he drew near, smiled, shed a tear, and put a firm hand on Dad’s shoulder.
The son ushered each of the six adult grandchildren to his Dad. The girls hugged and kissed Dad. The boys patted him on the back and grabbed his right hand as if to shake it while leaving it firmly grasping the walker.
He stood back and looked at Dad. The face had no expression. It was all a mystery. No words came. Not a smile or hint of recognition.
What was all this? Did Dad understand anything any longer? Nothing seemed to matter. Nothing mattered at all.
The attendant interrupted, “Here you go. That was a long, long walk. Let’s sit down here in the seat of honor at the head of the table.”
The attendant moved Dad a few steps to the side, let the man’s wife hold his hand while the attendant moved the walker out of they way, and guided Dad into the chair next to a birthday cake.
What a commotion. Who were these people? What was all the touching about. Females were kissing him and crying on him. They weren’t his wife. She had been gone for ten years. She wouldn’t approve of this.
There. Finally off my feet. No barber and no mail. But this? What was this?
In front of him was a table. On the table was a cake with big numbers on it. The numbers were a nine and a zero.
Some of the loud chatter quieted until he heard his wife’s voice, “It’s your birthday dear. You are ninety years old today. This is your family here to celebrate.”
He glanced back and forth looking for his wife’s face. He had heard her voice. She was in the room with all these people. No she wasn’t. She died ten years ago. But he heard her voice.
His glancing back and forth connected what he saw to his mind. There was his son. There was his daughter. Their spouses were in the room. The other people were, well, yes, they were his little grandchildren scurrying about playing with boxes wrapped with shiny, colorful paper and bows and ribbons. Except the grandchildren weren’t little. They were all grown. All those little grandchildren had reached adulthood and were healthy and were happy and were here with him.
They were all together.
It all mattered. Something mattered.
What, however, mattered?
He heard a clear voice, “Happy birthday Dad.”
It was his daughter-in-law. He always liked her. He could remember the first time he met her. His son wondered if he would like her. How foolish. Of course he liked her. And to think, she actually married his son and brought him three wonderful grandchildren. And here they were as adults. It all mattered.
He saw his daughter-in-law’s face clearly. She had tears on her face. His vision blurred a bit as his eyes moistened. He was crying. At least he was crying on the inside. He wasn’t sure if it showed.
“Look at him,” he whispered. “Nothing. He sees nothing, understands nothing. None of this means anything to him. Nothing matters to him. Even this.”
He turned away from his Dad and the celebration. He stared at his shoes.
“Why couldn’t this matter?” he said.
“It does matter,” said the attendant.
“What?” he said.
“It does matter,” repeated the attendant. “This does matter to your Dad. Look at him.”
“I am looking at him,” he said. “His face is blank. He doesn’t understand any of this.”
“Yes, he does,” said the attendant. “He doesn’t have much control over the muscles in his face. He doesn’t show emotion like most people. He can’t. His muscles just don’t work anymore. But I can see it. Those who work here can see the tiny expressions these older people show. The little lines around their keys. Their eyes open just a bit more. We can see it. Your Dad is quite happy. He realizes what is happening. He realizes who is here.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” said the attendant. “He is especially happy to see his grandchildren. They are young and strong. He remembers what that is. He remembers them as small children. He knows them, each one, by name.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Know it, sir,” said the attendant.
He paused and looked around the room. Everyone was happy. This was a happy birthday for Dad. His Dad didn’t have much of an expression. His Dad didn’t say anything. Perhaps the attendant was right, his face muscles were too weak to show what other people showed. Inside, however, his Dad was there and was happy, too.
“When was the last time everyone in this room was in one place at one time?” asked the attendant.
“Well,” he said. “I don’t know, maybe a few years ago. Maybe.”
“He did that,” said the attendant. “He brought everyone together. He has the power to do that.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Know it” said the attendant “That is the reason he is here, to bring everyone together. Look how happy the younger people are. They haven’t seen each other. Your Dad did that. He has a reason to live, to bring them all together. It matters. Something actually matters.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said.
The noise in the room was continuous. All these people were loud.
The grandchildren were especially loud, just like when they were little and sneaking cookies off the counter when they thought their grandmother couldn’t see them. She always saw them. She always knew and she always let them think they had won something that was beyond her.
One by one, each grandchild came to him with a box wrapped in colorful paper. With a little, “Let me help you with that,” they each unwrapped the box and pulled something out, saying “Happy birthday, I hope you like it.”
He recognized the things. Socks, pajamas, even a new pair of Dollar Store reading glasses. They were all nice, but he had no use for any of them. Maybe that young man who came into his room without knocking could figure out something to do with them.
The last to come was the oldest grandchild, a grandson. Before presenting him with a box wrapped in colorful paper, he paused and ushered a young woman to his side. He had never seen her before. She had the kindest eyes and a smile that rivaled his wife’s.
“Granddad, I want you to meet someone,” he said. “I hope you like her.”
Of course he liked her. She was precious.
Perhaps she would marry this grandson of his and bring him, let’s see, what do you call them? Oh yes, great-grandchildren. He would love to see great-grandchildren scurrying about his apartment. He would love that. He would have to get his rest, eat his meals, and take care of himself.
A smile came to his face. Everyone saw him smile.
“Oh yes,” he said aloud so that everyone heard him. “Of course, I like her.”
All those stay-healthy things mattered. They were important. He had to get to them starting now.
He had a purpose.
The End