a wooden chair
I went to see you today.
I wanted you to know that people still love you, care about how you feel, forgive you, and admire who you became and what you accomplished despite it all.
I'm one of those people.
And so here we were.
I sat in a wooden chair next to your bed and watched you while you were dying.
You opened your eyes briefly but didn't see me, or you couldn't acknowledge that you did.
I held your hand and kissed your head. I touched your side and felt your sharp ribs underneath your shirt. I thought it must be so painful. I prayed for you to die. Only because I love you, and the Alzheimer’s has kept you from really living for so long already.
Years after you've lost yourself, I'm preparing to lose you again. The irony of relying on memories to keep you close is not lost on me. At least the last time I saw you before this, you gave me a smile. I thought I might chuckle, but it turned into a knot in my throat.
My mind, at least for now, is too sharp yet to be fooled by the veiled sadness of false joy.
What might you say?
Authenticity over pretense, perhaps.
Instead of holding onto it, I let it go.
I cry.
Dad.
I love you
I wish you peace and, finally, rest.
I will remember until I can't.
