My dad has been sick for a few months now. It started with a loss of hearing and then a visit to the ENT, and a biopsy that showed cancer. I’ve taken to try and visit him once a week and bring some cookies baked by my daughter, maybe a Tupperware of soup. I leave my worries in my car, as much as I am able, and we talk. This past week was one of those amazing spring days with generous blocks of sun, a warm breeze..

He had been reclining in his armchair when I arrived, and I encouraged him to join me outside. Okay, he said.

He opened two lawn chairs for us and we sat outside their house. Helicopters rained down on us and my mom’s flowering shrubs shook their heads at us. We didn’t talk. A wind chime trilled in the distance and from somewhere bubbled up a memory from the second grade when Sister Sandra walked our class across the church parking lot to the house she shared with Sister Dorothy Clare. I told my dad how they directed us into the backyard and I remember sitting on my knees in the grass, eating a drumsicle. It was the first time I’d ever had one, and I remember peeling off the paper wrapper to take a bite of the sugar cone. It was late May, a day like this one, I shared, and I remember the smell of the lilacs and the warm breeze, and the sweet ice cream.

I could feel him listening to me. Maybe remembering when I was that age. Maybe remembering when he was that age himself. Really, I have no idea what was going on, but I could sense his interest and delight at hearing this little memory, one he made possible, whether he realizes it or not.