Dad's parents, MaMa and PaPa, had black bouncing chairs on their porch, and I remember sitting in one of them beside the adults after all of MaMa's big suppers. I liked to listen to the adults because the conversation usually meandered from Cousin Penny's delinquent kids to Alabama football, or MaMa's Sunday School parties. I didn't say much--maybe a few comments about school or my little league baseball team. I stayed quiet and watched my parents and grandparents bounce in those black chairs. Theirs was an easy, relaxing and slow bounce. They all weighed enough so that they kept a smooth tempo and consistent rhythm in those chairs. The only way I could bounce was by jerking the little weight I had from the front of the seat to the back. It was too much work and my bounce was awkward, so I kept still. My dad liked those chairs so much that he bought a set for his porch.

        I sit down next to Dad in one of the bouncing chairs with a beer in my hand. Foster's. Dad says his taste buds are going; he needs something bitter. It is bitter, but I don't mind because I am home from college, and this is a beer with my dad. I tell him about school which gets us both through a few bottles, and he tells me about things at home which gets us through a few more. It's not long until we are both a little emotional and very chatty. So I get serious, and I ask him what it was like for him when PaPa died.

        Alzheimer's disease had withered PaPa to nothing the previous December. He stopped eating because he didn't know how. No one understood the gibberish he mumbled. He slept most of every day while his mind deteriorated, and died peacefully in a hospital six days before Christmas. I was away at school. I didn't see my dad until the funeral, and things were so busy the whole time I was home that I didn't get to talk to him about how he felt.

        I focus on his eyes that have glanced out onto the lake behind our house. The crickets are chanting. He sips and props his chin on his right hand, fingering his beard. The crickets get louder. Then he starts talking.

        "You remember how I used to visit them every Wednesday after work. We told you how he was getting worse--locking MaMa out of the house and wandering through the neighborhood." Dad pauses, and we both sip. "Well, one Wednesday I ate supper with them, and he just stared straight ahead the entire time. No response. MaMa fed him with her fork and wiped off the creamed corn dripping from the side of his mouth. And I tried to talk to him. I said, 'Pop, you doin' alright?'--and he didn't say anything--'Pop, you need to eat all your supper.' He turned his head toward me and looked right into my eyes. Only, that wasn't my daddy. It was some man who was confused and didn't know where he was and didn't know who I was. I looked in his eyes and saw nothing there." Dad looks at me. "That's when I knew PaPa had died. My father was a strong man. He worked hard while I was growing up to give your Uncle Jim and me everything we needed. That's the man I'll remember. MaMa kept saying, 'Come on Jake, finish your supper. Eat one more bite,' but he just stared. He wasn't Jake either. It was like she was talking to a kid, and I thought about how hard it was to feed you and your brother when you were both toddlers." We smile. "We'd talk to you and play games, but you just wanted to throw your food at each other."

        Dad pauses again, and we sip in the silence. I have watched him the whole time as he looked at the water and then at me. He speaks up again. "I did have that peace you always hear about because I knew that MaMa could finally rest and that PaPa's body was out of its misery. I began grieving on the drive home that Wednesday night, so I guess that's why the funeral was a lot easier to handle for me than what I had expected."

        He had handled it well. I never saw him cry that whole Christmas. He took care of all the funeral arrangements and shook all the friends' and families' hands. He thanked everyone that brought food and stood beside MaMa during the graveside services. He did what he was supposed to do. He was stable.

        As I bounce in the chair, I begin to realize that we are connecting. For the first time he is opening up to me. I can tell that he's not finished, so I ask what else he is thinking about. He sips and says, "I loved my daddy because he provided for me. He worked and worked because he wanted us to have what he didn't have. That's what I've done for you and your brother."

        Dad got into Dentistry because he knew it would be a sturdy job, and he could make a lot of money.

        "My dream has always been to write, and sometimes my aching back makes me wish I had done that or something else. But look at this." He opens his arms and points to our surroundings. The porch. The lake. "I've got my two sons in college, a wonderful wife, and a place like this to relax."

        He smiles again. I lean up in my chair and look at his beard, then his smile, then his eyes. I respond. "You've made me very happy, and I know that I don't show you how much I appreciate you, but I do." I sip. He turns up the last of his beer and says, "I've got to pee, but I want to ask you something when I get back."

        He walks into the house and I look at the Foster's in my hand. I finish it and start to peel off the label. I've got a good buzz going, and my emotions are running high because this is the first conversation that we've had as adults. He respects me and is confiding in me. I get up, get the two of us another beer, and sit down as he returns from the bathroom. He takes the first sip of his beer and thanks me. He leans back and bounces in his chair, crossing his ankles.

        "You know I love you don't you?"

        "Yeah, I love you too, Dad."

        "No, I mean I really do love you. I want to make sure that you know, and make sure that you hear me say it to you, because PaPa never told me that. It was one of those understood things. I know my daddy loved me, and I loved him, but we never told each other. You think about things like that when someone you love is dying, and he can't talk to you, and he can't understand what you are saying. I just don't ever want you to doubt the fact that I love you."

        Silence. I turn my head to look at the lake. The moon's reflection ripples with the water. I'm clear-headed enough to work through what he just said. Somewhere in his mind he doubts the love between himself and PaPa.

        My PaPa was a strong man but very unfeeling. Indeed, he worked and worked to provide for his family, but that kept him away from home most of the time. The relationship between my father and PaPa was exactly what Dad said--understood. PaPa's role was the provider, and that was how he showed love to his family. Dad appreciated that and showed his love for PaPa with gratitude. Dad began to take care of PaPa as they both got older, but they never said they loved each other. They waited too late. Soon, the PaPa thathad worked hard and had understood what words meant and how to communicate passed on, and Dad could only speak at the frail and disoriented man who took PaPa's place.

        I'm still looking at the lake when an idea comes to my mind. Perhaps as I slowly bounce in this chair, my Dad, for a second, catches a glimpse of his conscious father across from him. Maybe my easy, rhythmical bounce resembles PaPa's. I don't have to jerk anymore because I finally weigh enough to make my bounce smooth. Maybe that's why he made sure he told me he loved me. I weigh enough to ease Dad's regret.

        I smile, turn my head back to him and say, "Don't ever worry about me doubting the fact that we love each other."

        He says he won't and gets up to turn in for the night. I bounce in my chair a little longer.