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Wrinkled and yellow,
Frail and brittle,
Your speach is slow
and each time you tell a story
you pause in confusion
grasping at the threads of recollection
to no avail.
This illness is running its course.
I don't call you as much as I should.
I know we don't have much time left together.
But I run wildly toward the memory of what you were.
The towering man with burly arms,
covered in man-hair
and brave tatoos.
My protector,
the fortress that held me safe
You always made me laugh.
You make everyone laugh.
Even the nurses who take care of you now
laugh as you recite the wild renditions of your youth.
You have this way of making even the serious and somber
something lighthearted and humorous
We are all proud of your service to our country.
I am proud to be your daughter.
I miss you, Dad
and I feel guilty because it's too early to say that.
You're still here with me.
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This is a gem of honesty and craft. I really enjoyed (it feels strange using that word with tears in my eyes) how you reveal the person to us - keeping us wondering - until you decide.
