![]() ![]() ![]() It’s what made him tick, smile, get up, and breathe each morning. To me, this represents his soul, his passion. I’ve asked for one when he passes to remember him. We did a few things together when I was young, but for the most part, he spent days working as an aerospace engineer and nights and weekends in his shop refurbishing old toy steam engines. It was an odd feeling: Dad wanting to talk to me, Dad communicating with me, Dad telling me he loved me. When Dad was first diagnosed, first realized he was losing the ability to communicate, he was always excited by my calls. Help comes for a few hours at least twice a day. She told me about a video call of him with his other great-granddaughter, her daughter, Blake. My oldest daughter arrived shortly after with a one-way ticket there, and no time of departure. He’s weak and has been taken off most medications. Hospice usually means less than six months, but in reality, there’s no way of telling. He was recently placed in hospice, with an undetermined amount of time left. But he’s awake and aware of his surroundings. Since that photo was taken, he’s confined to bed. Kayleigh is my nephew’s and Dad’s grandson’s daughter. It captured a moment of feeling, of expression, of awareness, of acceptance, of love. It doesn’t matter the quality not that great due to daylight sun streaming in through the windows darkening Dad’s image. It doesn’t matter the focus of the image was off. ![]() Kayleigh, just more than a year old, stands in front of him, pacifier in her mouth, holding a deep gaze into his eyes. Dad, in his wheelchair, with his dementia, appears to be staring at her in awe. I stare at a picture of my Dad and his great-granddaughter amazed at the connection I feel in the portrait. Image: Debbie Cutler’s father and Kayleigh, taken in July 2022 ![]()
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