The Long Goodbye
With my dad,
it started with
some memory slips,
then forgetting
where he put things.
Then accusing others
about the “stolen” items.
He forgot words.
He forgot names.
He forgot what
hunting season it was.
He’d walk to his old
house in the middle of the night.
The new owner
would call and say, “Come get Jim.”
We’d take him to respite
care and the caregiver
would show us a
craft he had made.
Sadness crept in
at the role reversal.
He’d think photographs
were real
and worry about
the little kids,
that were now grown.
He’d chat with
himself in the mirror.
In the end, he
went into the nursing home.
He’d walk all over
the place
and the staff
would keep tabs.
He ended up in a
wheel chair
and for some
reason the ladies liked him
and tried to steal
him away to their rooms.
One day I stood
over his bed and said goodbye,
knowing that it
would be the last time.
But for fifteen
years, I was saying goodbye
to a little bit of
him each day.
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