The Two Dumplings in His Pocket

The first time his father did not recognize him, it happened on an ordinary rainy afternoon. The old man looked up from the sofa, saw a middle-aged stranger at the door, and asked politely, “Who are you here to see?” His son smiled because he did not know what else to do. “Dad, it’s me.”

After that, forgetting became part of the household. His father asked where his medicine was minutes after taking it. He stood downstairs in front of his own building and said he could not find home. His mother wrote his name, phone number, and address on small cards and slipped them into every coat pocket.

One evening, the family made dumplings. When the meal was almost over, two were left on the plate. His mother stepped into the kitchen for a moment. When she came back, she saw her husband wrapping the dumplings carefully in a napkin and pushing them into his jacket pocket.

“Why are you saving those?” she asked. He lowered his voice, as if protecting a secret. “For my son,” he said. “He loved these when he was little. I’ll give them to him when he comes back.”

His son was sitting across the table. For a second, no one moved. Then the son looked down at his bowl because he could not bear to meet his mother’s eyes. The disease had taken his father’s ability to place him in the room, but it had not taken the direction of his love.

From then on, he stopped asking, “Dad, do you remember me?” He brought dumplings when he visited. He sat beside his father and ate slowly. And when the old man tried to save one in his pocket again, the son would say gently, “Let’s keep it for him together.”