Dad’s Eyes

“He just doesn’t want to talk, that’s all”, mom said.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to Dad in weeks,

especially after the diagnosis.

I lived far away and it wasn’t easy

to get to where he was,

but I knew something was wrong.

Against my “wife’s” insistence,

I took the trip, knowing full well what was

at the end of it, waiting for me,

but all the same, I took it.

When I got through that crypt of a door

and after the eternity of time

it took to get to his chair,

I saw him–and wept…

He was rail-thin; unshaven,

and almost unresponsive….

Mom cried too, “I just didn’t know what to say…”

She would offer;

and ” I didn’t want you to worry”…

I was the only child, you see

with a family falling apart on it’s own

and trying to hold it together

while knowing he was coming apart.

I bent down to him and whispered “Daddy?, Do you hear me”

He turned slowly in my direction, and smiled ever so gently…

and, in the fading light

of his eyes,

I finally realized that

they were fixed,

not on me,

but on another shore.

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