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.