His hospital bed is set up in the living room.  It runs the length of the wall where the sofa used to be.  His breathing machine, oxygen tank, and his walker are positioned around an old wooden crate that serves as a bedside table where he has Q-Tips, Kleenex, and the TV remote. 

The head of the bed is elevated and the metal frame and slats are the color of used Silly Putty.  The kitten runs under the bed with his oxygen hose, leaps up through the slats and sits, taunting the dog.

The yellow sheets are rumpled, pulling away from the mattress because this bed is slightly longer and wider than a twin but not as big as a full.  There is a safety pin vainly trying to keep the fitted sheet in place in one of the corners.

My dad sits on the side of the bed, his upper plate in his hand.  He is cleaning it with a Kleenex and as I cannot focus on his face, I stare at his perfect teeth.  I think about the Kleenex on the pink plastic and remember when I wore a retainer and know the tissue will stick and tear. 

His legs are swollen.  They are always swollen.  They are encased from the knees down in compression stockings that are flesh colored – but not his flesh color.  His legs stopped being that color a long time ago and look like raw meat to me – a reddish purple that looks like it should hurt and I suppose it does.  He doesn’t say.

His breathing is labored, he is telling me I need to find someone to work on my car.  He can’t do it anymore.  Changing the battery just about killed him.  Literally. 

I nod my agreement, unable to meet his gaze.  He and I have the same eyes.  Blue and green compete for which will be the primary color.  Blue when we are stressed or angry, green when we are laughing and relaxed.  Both our eyes are dark blue right now. 

I mean it now, he says, I am not saying you have to date anyone, but find someone you can trust to work on your car.  You could, I dare you, walk into a bar with a sign on your back that says ‘I need an oil change’ and see what happens.

I say I have heard enough dipstick jokes already. 

He is still cleaning his teeth.  The plate is clean; he just can’t look at me anymore than I can look at him. 

We both know we if our eyes meet, there will be an understanding of what is happening to him and we will cry, and we will not allow that to happen.