We're out on Porcupine Hill, the weather is pleasant, late morning. Chickadees flit around. Cumulus humilis clouds drift across the sky. Sounds trickle uphill from the palette factory down below, unseen.

Father Maes is out here.

"I guess I'll watch the leaves fall, too," he says to us as he walkers out. He was in Dammert for some rehab earlier this year. I remember seeing him sit and read under the light of a skylight. Now he's back in his right place in St. Francis Center. He is a peaceful soul. He's awaiting a delivery, he says.

My brother was here yesterday but my dad does not remember it. There is some solace knowing he probably doesn't miss me when I'm gone. Was I just here or have I not been here in two weeks? It doesn't seem to matter to him. The last time I was here—Wednesday—he asked me to take him back inside after we had been sitting here outside for a mere 45 minutes.

"That's about enough for me," he said.

In all these Shrine/Dammert visits, he's never asked to go back inside, no matter how long we've been outside, no matter the weather. He never complained about or commented upon the heat and humidity out here at any time this summer. The only time he ever wanted to go inside was so he could go to the bathroom, and it was always implied that he would be ready to come back outside once a CNA could put him on and he could do his business.

Here comes the delivery Father Maes said he was waiting for. It's another, younger priest carrying a rosary pouch.

"Is that my Mach 34?" asks Father Maes, standing up against his walker.

"There is no Mach 34," says the younger Father. "How about a Mach 3? Sit down, we'll visit a minute."

I am not trying to eavesdrop but my dad and I aren't conversing so what else is there to do? Father Maes and the younger clergyman are talking about pawpaw, the tree fruit. They are native to Missouri; supposed to taste like a custardy banana. I've never had one before. I've looked for them. Now they're saying something about somebody making a pawpaw pie.

I've asked my dad several questions. He offers a brief answer but then he sandbags. "XYZ, etc, but what do I know?"

A breeze, my dad dozing. Because I don't have a tractor anymore. This pen is on the skids. At some point, darn darn this pen. The old darned man, this old darned pen. Pen fail. I like it when it writes well but it's not working. I cannot write through when there is no—

New pen. Butterflies and baseball and breeze. Leaves of the river birch holding onto green here at the care facility. Asphalt crew out patching potholes, filling holes in the road with the rock-and-oil equivalent of duct tape. Does my dad hate his life? I ask him how he is doing. He says the real answer inwardly to himself, then tells me he's doing OK.

I shared with him the news of Kris Kristofferson passing away, news that managed to get through to him, stung him. I told him that a famous country music singer had passed away. I wanted him to come up with the name. I said, "This guy was a country singer, an actor, and more than anything this guy was known as a songwriter." And he got it...

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