Your children love you. They cry as you leave with promises of souvenirs. You need to catch your flight. Ah, but their runny faces as you get in the car—I do not look.
You’re raising them well. The girl’s brazen, as girls her age should be, and asks questions at all the right times (Why can’t I drink coffee? Why do birds sing in the morning? Why don’t you smile anymore, Daddy?). Your son is younger, at that age where he is more puppy than boy. He follows you around the house in devoted silence, trailing after your ankles and attacking them with toys or gums or hugs.
Your kids love you. So does your wife. When you no longer know your phone number—when you fumble with your medication—even when you forget your children’s names (I’m bad with names, always have been), she throws me a look that I cannot decipher but which I’m sure holds some secret meaning between the two of you. I assume you’re a funny person. She believes you’re joking, that these bouts of amnesia are a bit that gets you out of chores and makes the kids laugh (Daddy, Daddy, of course you know who I am, you’re so silly, Daddy).
