The Prisoner

Writing in my journal has lost its appeal. The time since my last
entry has not been my happiest. I visit dad in the nursing home about
twice a week. He looks the same to me; his handsome features are
apparent. He still has the same baritone voice, the same green,
sorrowful eyes and bushy eyebrows. He knows everyone who comes to
visit, and calls my son from his bed if he sees him wandering
off.

Most of the time he lies quietly in his bed with his eyes closed,
unaware of where he is or the passage of time. He'll burst into song
but the words are gone and he tires easily. His heart is badly damaged,
and he has difficulty sitting up in bed. It's disturbing to see the
diaper. The doctor predicts that he'll not last more than a month or
two.