"Ah'd like to be reunited with m'weapons."
My dad stands in front of me, shifting his weight from side to side, as he does these days. He has stopped me on my way out of the porch to 'have a word' about a subject near and dear to his heart:
Guns.
Awhile back, due to my dad's increasing dementia, we locked up all of his Potentially Dangerous Objects. At the time he agreed to at least the guns, and he sat passively while N and B made several trips to the safe. Since then we've had to do a few more sweeps, each time finding more of his hidden stash. I say "we", but I mean N. I'm useless when it comes to this stuff.
Of course, he remembers none of that.
Like V asking about her birthday over and over, or W obsessing daily over Star Wars Lego sets, my dad is utterly fixated on his missing weapons. He keeps saying he is going to report them stolen, which is in fact how he started off this particular conversation.
"Dad, remember we took them down to the safe, just like the policeman said to," I say in a soothing tone, following my instructions from N to the letter.
"They were taken without m'permission," he sulks.
There was a time when my dad asking for a word would have filled me with avoidance. I would have stared everywhere but at him, given him about 30 seconds, and then been on my way. To my shame, his clouded mind has set me free from this. I look on him with pity. He's a person deserving of my care. I wish I could say that I forgave him for all the years of dealing with his frustrating personality, while he was still cognizant, but I didn't. I had to be let off the hook. The burden of my resentment was lifted from me without any character growth on my part.
Now I stand, somewhat patient, giving him my full attention. I take in his heavy, black-sock clad feet. He appears fairly tidy today, wearing a dark striped dress shirt and gray trousers. His face is covered in white whiskers, his skin clean and calm. It is in contrast to the dryness and crumbs and sores he sometimes has. My eyes focus in on a small piece of skin flaking off his left brow, the only small blemish on what appears to be a good skin day for him. This will have to pass for me looking him in the eyes.
"You did give permission, it's just slipping your mind right now. They are all safe, they are all here," I say.
His face perks up. "They're here in the house?" He says.
"Yes, they're here. No one has taken them from you. Everything is accounted for. Everything is fine. It will be just fine," I reiterate.
He continues shifting his weight. He clearly doesn't feel assured enough. The conversation is not over for him, because he has not won it. For me, however, patience has run out. I have places to go. I repeat myself one more time and bid him goodbye. He shuffles back into the house, still confused and unsatisfied. I'm pretty sure he won't remember this conversation later.
But everything is fine. It will be just fine.
