06-09-2014, 02:45 AM
I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain
He’s buried now with a playground
beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others
will remember, even if he couldn’t
His last years were sand, a gift
to be taken away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how the voices and names moved
farther and farther away
Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed
that he had been dreaming at all
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain
He’s buried now with a playground
beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others
will remember, even if he couldn’t
His last years were sand, a gift
to be taken away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how the voices and names moved
farther and farther away
Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed
that he had been dreaming at all