By Carla Paton 
In his last years, Dad spent his days in a chair by the big picture window. From there, he could survey all the comings and goings of the ranch. He watched the weather, the dogs, and our Arabian stallion, Axum, galloping through the pines and calling to the mares across the hill. Occasionally, Dad would alert us that a certain dog had escaped or that a storm was coming in. He was looking out. He was keeping track.
He needed help to move even a few steps. At night, my husband or I cleaned him, dressed him, and tucked him into bed. He had long been stubborn, refusing therapy or advice, often saying he was “living on borrowed time” since his father had a heart attack in his late fifties.
Before Alzheimer’s, Dad was active in retirement, having retired from the National Weather Service, where he had served as Meteorologist-in-Charge for Colorado. He loved trains and spent hours building his model layout. Dad won awards in stamp shows, and he traveled to nearby states for train watching and museum openings.
When Mom broke her ankle, everything changed. Both of them were already using walkers, and their tri-level house was no longer safe. With their consent, we sold both of our homes and moved together to a ranch on the Eastern Colorado plains so we could care for them more closely.
For a while, it worked. But as Dad’s memory and hearing worsened, he grew angry and suspicious. He felt he had lost control, and that fear came out in harsh ways. The strain wore on all of us. Mom was in tears most days, and I felt it in my back and my patience. We were exhausted.
After a severe intestinal blockage, Dad was hospitalized and then sent to rehab. There, the staff asked if he was hungry or in pain. He always said “No,” and they took him at his word. We often found him unfed, unchanged, still in bed. They expected him to speak for himself, but he no longer could. We soon moved him to a memory care facility where he received better support.
For a few months, he did well. Then he stopped wanting to get out of bed. He ate less and less. He wasn’t in pain, but he was failing to thrive. That was when I called hospice.
The hospice team brought a different kind of care. Each day, someone came—a nurse, a social worker, or the chaplain. Mark, the chaplain, was Hopi, and something about his presence felt right for Dad. They would sit together quietly, sometimes watching train videos or talking about weather. Mark never pressed him about anything beyond the moment. Dad seemed at peace with that.
At first, he still knew us, though he was often confused about where he was. Over time, his world narrowed. He forgot most of his life and returned to his childhood in Sabetha, Kansas. When I visited, he would ask, “Did it take you long to get here from Sabetha?”
“No, Dad. I came from the ranch. We live in Colorado now.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” he would say, laughing softly at himself.
Later, even that faded. One day, he introduced Mom to a caregiver as his mother. My brother came from Florida after many years away. Dad enjoyed the company of this interesting stranger, but many times he was confused as to who my brother, his son, was.
In those final weeks, I sat with Dad, and we watched train videos. We talked about Kansas and the weather. I reminded him of the storms we used to watch together when I was a girl. He had taught me to pay attention—to listen and how to watch…
Courting the storm, he paces, accumulating sky signs.
Under the porch overhang, an electric current coats my tongue.
Ozone clings to the worn blanket closed around me.
Everywhere, lightning is different.
Humidity lays a woolly cushion and thunder reports in deep layers.
It rumbles, rolling along the hills, insistent through dense trees.
“One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand,” we count.
Rain comes with a compression crack, carrying the salt of the Chesapeake.
Summer’s heat is washed clean.
The world before me is restored in beauty.
The world behind me is restored in beauty.
The world below me is restored in beauty.
The world above me is restored in beauty.
All things around me are restored in beauty.
My voice is restored in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.
— Navajo Prayer of Liberation
Originally published on the author’s blog
by Mel Landers 
by Jessica Heeran 
by Brea Schmidt 
