They ask… By Samantha Mossman
They ask, “ How is your dad doing? ”
What I want to say is that I am losing my dad in slow motion. Years are being robbed in seconds, moments are grieved in minutes, Memories are corrupted by the hours, Hopes stolen by the light of day. What I want to ask is Why do you need to poke your fingers In the wound that is already festering With each visit home. Each action that is added to a list Of no longer possible, Like walking any distance, Like getting off the couch on the first try, Like pushing his own chair in At the kitchen table. What I want to say is That the father I knew for so long, 32 years to be exact, Is fading, faster and faster, Becoming a specter before my eyes.
HVWP COMMONPLACE 21
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