it’s christmas day 2013 and your chest hurts
but you finish making family breakfast- just like every year.
a 95% blockage and immediate heart surgery
my sisters visit you before I do.
it’s christmas day 2023
and you finish making family breakfast- just like you have the past ten years.
it’s summer 2008 and we are walking in the creek
when the red-handled bucket begins floating away.
You run to save my favorite bucket.
it’s january 2024 and we are walking to my car.
The stone wall is getting too high for you to step over
but I hold your waist so you don’t fall.
it’s february 2024 and you are walking out of the bedroom.
When your leg gives out I offer you my hand
but I don’t want to let go.
it’s march 2024 and your muscles are twitching- dissipating.
ALS medication adding two to three months to a terminal prognosis
but we know prolonging will never be long enough.
it’s july 2024 and your first grandson is named after you.
I watch you hold him with a pillow supporting your arm
wondering how many times you will hold him
knowing neither will remember what it feels like.
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