It would not be until about another year before my father would pass on, and he was long past a right state of mind. I couldn’t leave him alone, though, terrible as he was, but took care of him daily, day in and day out, moment by moment, feeding him, washing him, bathing him, brushing his teeth, combing what was left of his patchy hair. Much as I hated all that time caring for him, now I cherish those memories, seeing as he’s presently six feet under the earth.

I can’t bring him back to life, of course, but savoring those memories makes him come alive in a way that I never knew was possible. Memories have a funny way of coloring the past, both for good and for ill; they make the facts seem to have been altogether different than they actually had to have been. Seeing as the past is passed, it’s hard to verify the veracity of memories, except with a photograph here and a note or letter there.

I remember my father being very childlike, just before he died, losing touch with the facts of reality–and, while at the time, it annoyed the hell out of me, I surprisingly look back with fondness at his cheerful manner and uninhibited freedom. I’m somewhat jealous of him, being so cheerful and free–while I was working tirelessly to feed him and clean him and dress him, having to constantly remember when he needed to take his meds and to preemptively anticipate other needs he had, like when he’d need to piss or shit.

I remember one incident when he was drooling his food out of his mouth, spittle running thick down his chin, when he looked at me with a big grin. The smell was a dead giveaway: he’d shit his pants. By this time, he was a smaller man than he’d ever been, so lifting him up and carrying him wasn’t an issue; but that smell–it was about as foul a smell I can remember and wish I could forget. The funny thing was that Dad was all giddy about the whole thing, like it was some sort of silly prank. Maybe, he was getting me back for when I was a baby and I shit all over the bassinette or the time I pissed right into his mouth. Honestly, I don’t remember those incidents but he loved to rub them in my face, telling them over and over again: to me, to the family, to my friends, to girlfriends, to my wife, to our kids.

So, there was Dad, standing in the shower, disrobed, and shitting out of his ass like there was no tomorrow, all the crap running down his legs–and he was laughing like there was no tomorrow. I was less than pleased. I don’t know if my father was simply out of his mind or just was embarrassed, so he laughed; or if he was really having a good time, thinking the whole thing funny. Whatever his reason, I look back now and see an opportunity lost, where I could have been more engaged, where I could have laughed a little–instead of being pissed and livid that I had to shower down my shit-covered father.

Now, when I think of my father, lying in a box in the dirt, I can’t help but wish he were back here, even just for a moment, even with shit and all. I remember him and that helps keep him alive, but I can’t raise him from the dead.