My own discomfort forces me to stop for a minute, and I look over at my father. He is fast asleep. Next I glance at my watch, which informs me that it’s two in the morning. I have been reading for hours. Instant transfusion of guilt. What type of selfishness allows a son to get so involved in mere words that he forgets the needs of his dying flesh and blood father? A dose of anxiety closely follows guilt transfusion. Am I supposed to carry him to bed? I don’t think I can, nor, God help me, do I want to. The act of hoisting him in my arms would wake him up anyway, so why not just wake him up and escort him to bed? Or just wake him up and assume he can get himself there by himself, as he has every evening of his life? Or just go to bed myself and assume that he’s comfortable enough where he is? Either the cessation of my drone or the onslaught of my worries pierces my father’s consciousness. He gives a snort and opens his eyes. I don a facetious smile.
