My Journal

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My Loves

Today I worry about my father and my mother.

My mother so stubborn she will not leave her home and insists on taking care of my 93-year-old father by herself.

Yesterday he fell on the floor and could not get up. His mind eaten by dementia he does not even understand the mechanics of how to help raise his frail body from the floor once he is there.

This hero of World War II. This hero of my life. This damn good man.

On the floor. Crumpled. For 20 minutes until my mother can summon a neighbor to help.

His life ticking away in a crumple on the floor. His blue eyes bewildered.

My mother too scared to leave the home she has known for 65 years.

Too scared to do what is best for both of them.

A good woman scared of the slipping away of what she loves.

Today and always this is what is important.


This chess piece is off the table.
You cannot play her anymore.

I have looked your queen in the eye
and realized you are playing her as well.





There are still times when I wake up and wonder where I am
and then the night slowly ticks away while I remember how I got here.

Like this one, like that one

I love this poet.

The Flower
Robert Creeley

I think I grow tensions
like flowers
in a wood where
nobody goes.

Each wound is perfect,
encloses itself in a tiny
imperceptible blossom,
making pain.

Pain is a flower like that one,
like this one,
like that one,
like this one.



My mother calls me in a panic.

My father did not eat his dinner, refused to take his pills and went to bed in his clothes and not his pajamas.

She thinks that if he eats three meals a day and not two, takes 20 pills a day instead of 17, and goes to bed in what society deems proper sleepwear; he may live forever.

He is 93, can barely walk a few steps, and has a fatal disease.

There is no fine line between optimism and denial.