On the subway, when people are having conversations in a foreign language and it’s clear that they not only don’t mind eavesdropping but are indeed encouraging it, I like to glance at them periodically, my gaze resting on them just long enough to register that I understand what they’re saying, and match my reaction and facial expression to theirs but on a smaller scale, so they know that I know what they’re saying. Even though I usually don’t. “What? This tiny dark-haired lady understands our Tall Blonde Weird-Vowelspeak?” one probably says as a test. So I smile just in case.
Jodi,
I know your pain. I sat in a similar hospital room with my Mom in September as she died. I too stroked her arm, told her I loved her dozens of times, marveled at the innocence on her face. I buried her with her “new” glasses and still regret it, because Mom never felt comfortable wearing them. It is a terrible thing when daughters become grievers. My heart is with you. Jodie
Sorry to hear about your dad.