My dad sat straight up in bed and smiled at me. Even though his mouth was crusted with fever sores, he grinned a big grin from his unshaven face.
Dementia had completely taken him from me— or so I thought, until he spoke to me.
“Honey,” Dad almost seemed to sing the words. “What are you doing here?”
My throat muscles ached from trying to talk and not cry. Choking back my tears, I half-sobbed, “Daddy, I’m here to especially see you. I love you, you know.”
“Me too, honey,” he whispered. Then, still smiling, Daddy fell asleep.
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