Virgil

Love.

Virgil’s my dad. He was born on a ranch and lived on a ranch all his life. You could say he was our John Wayne, except Virgil was the real thing.

Late in his life he developed Alzheimer’s. He would say “Drew, I’m losing my mind.” And I would say, “No, you’re not Dad.” With hindsight, oh, how I wish I had said, “I know Dad. I’ll be with you every step of the way, as will all of us who love you so much. You will never be alone or uncared for.”

Dad was a big man, bigger than me. Weather beaten. Strong as an ox. He could cry like a baby. If he hadn’t been a rancher, he could have made it as a paid mourner.

Every time my brother or me or my cousins or our children went off to college or to our homes, Dad would stand by the door with tears flowing down his cheeks.

He continued to cry when I left his Alzheimer’s facility and would stay sad for a while not remembering why he was sad. I started to say when I left, “I’ll be right back, Dad. I’m going to the grocery store to buy you some cigarettes.” He would brighten up and, in a short while, forget that I had even visited.

Prior to Alzheimer’s, Dad was a pro at dominoes. Post Alzheimer’s, he didn’t know what the dominoes were for until we started to play.

Even with Alzheimer’s, Dad’s thoughtfulness shined through. If he was “reading” the newspaper, he would hand me a section, sometimes turned upside down. If he had a drink of water, he made sure I had one.

Dad taught me to love, even when I didn’t receive anything in return.