by Emily Picha
Estimated Length: 3 minutes
(Lina sits at a table writing a letter, thoughtful but sad. It's a letter to her father who has Alzheimers. He can't even remember her name anymore. She gets up from the table, and begins to recite what she has written in her letter, not reading it, just staring wistfully and full of sorrow out at some unknown point.) / E-mail / Feedback form / E-mail this page / Back to Naranja
Dad, it's been a long time since I saw you or talked to you. I think it's because the last time I saw you, you didn't know who I was. You smiled and asked if I could get some orange juice for you. You laughed at my confusion. You called me "nurse." And I may have been your nurse when I was a little girl, when you used to sit in your recliner and watch "Happy Days," smiling at the characters on the television, but still remembering your daughter. You would kid with me about my play costume. You would ask me for orange juice, saying you had a tummy ache. And even if I spilt the orange juice in the kitchen, you would come help me clean it up, both of us bending down with mom's rags and scrubbing and laughing all at once. You made everything so fun, Dad. And I don't know why the world did this to you. I just hope you're happy still, even if you can't remember who you are or who your wife is.
I hope you can read this letter too, Dad, because I know your eyesight is failing you. I love you so much, Dad. I want you to know that. These thirty seven years would not be complete without you. You walked me down the aisle, you cried with me when grandma died. I wasn't afraid to be myself with you dad. But now, it doesn't matter who I am at all to you. But that's not your fault...
Mom isn't doing too well with this. She calls me up sometimes, at three in the morning, pleading to me why you aren't lying beside her anymore. I try to comfort her, saying,"He still loves you, Mom. He still does.." because if you didn't have Alzheimers, you would be in her bed instead of in the nursing home. And you two would be cuddling and cooing like you always had, for the past forty one years, like you always had. But she's sleeping alone now, Dad. And she's not doing too good. Her arthritis is bothering her, and she's a lot more susceptible to everything now that you're gone. But I... I won't dwell on everything that's negative, Dad. It would just wreck all that was positive with you in my entire existence. I'll see you up in heaven someday. We can talk about our lives and remember everything up there, Dad. We'll be so happy.
(She goes to the table, folds up her letter, puts it in an envelope, and exits.)