Thursday, April 7, 2011

Did That Okay

Everywhere I look; attachment. 

Fungi, like barnacles on a whale's back, cling to a tree trunk. Patches of mossy-green lichen stamped on wet rocks. Me to my old father who looks me in the eye and says, "I'm settling in here. I'm...", and for a moment pauses, then, "happy. And grateful," he adds.

Why does my heart race when Claire and I walk him to the dining room for the evening meal? We meet Dad's dinner mates; Ed, Jim, and Bob. Bob is curled over himself, but smiling. I shake each of their hands. Bob's are red, worn, crumpled. 

"I hate to go so soon, Dad."
"It's fine, all fine," he says, hugging us goodbye.

"You're awfully quiet," I whisper, leaning into a table of women. They smile, eyes wide, hands clasped on table.

Claire and I pass a rack outside the dining room. 
"Look Mom," she whispers, "like a bike rack, but walkers."
I want to run, but don't.

Pushing out the doors, the air is damp and cold.
"Well, we did that okay, Mom," Claire says.


  1. proud of you bets. keep loving. keep breathing. keep living.

  2. oh yea! thanks for checking in, chica!