My father drove twice a day every day to visit my mother in the nursing home.
He patiently encouraged her to eat. When she wouldn’t feed herself, he fed her. Through them, I watched that final scene of Driving Miss Daisy over and over and over.
Hoke: Looka here. You ain’ eat yo’ Thanksgiving pie. Lemme hep you wid this.
He slowly pushed her wheelchair through the halls and for walks in the courtyard, sitting to rest himself as needed.
They were still two-become-one but in smaller ways that were really bigger than the ocean.
When she passed away, even though she had been disappearing in dribs and drabs over so many years, he was lost.
His love and devotion for my mother sets the bar high for the rest of us,