By Nancy Morgan
My father bounds down the front steps to rescue the morning paper from the spring rain. Dismayed, he turns the sodden gray folds over and over, considering its fate, including tossing it in the trash. But Mother wants the paper and there is so little he can do for her now, as the last stage of cancer devours her pancreas, her dignity, her will. Morning paper with coffee is one remaining pleasure- he simply cannot fail with this delivery.
Gently he peels back the clinging layers, careful not to tear the dissolving fabric. As he frees each sheet from its clammy neighbor, Dad drapes them over the spine of the tall gray radiators standing awkwardly in the corner of each room. Our house smells like a paper mill as he moves wordlessly from room to room, like a baker keeping a vigil over rising bread, testing, feeling for readiness. Once cured he lifts each crisp sheet, convoluted by the radiators’ bony ribs, places them in proper sequence, folds and refolds, creating a product more European in texture, ready for the hands of this news-hungry woman.
Mother receives the paper without comment, muttering over disappointing articles, oblivious to the painstaking act of love that salvaged her morning ritual. Dad disappears silently down the stairs, a shadow smile lingering in the corners of his mouth.