His hands
are crumpled brown paper bags
His eyebrows, I notice now
are suddenly sparse
Feisty but few
He begins,
I was forgetting… I forget a lot now
I wait
This story – this story you tell.
Is mine. Mine. Imagine…
Tell me,
what does ‘dilemma’ mean?
You must tell me more,
Sometimes I don’t understand these things…
He struggles to place sound in his mouth
that matches his heart
his huge big heart,
Thank you. For remembering for me.
I feel warm
on this rainy day.
And sad.
For his memories that are slipping away
like water between his fingers
no matter how much he clutches
at them with his brown paper bags
I reach forward,
try to,
do something.
But I feel too big, bulky, different
in front of his small frame,
what if he becomes awkward?
What if I feel the bones beneath his material?
I am taller than him.
I reach out my hand but he moves his away
to turn the newspaper over.
I know I will regret not doing it,
one day
I love you,
old man
with your memories
and stories
and your
crumpled
brown
paper
bags
