For my dad.
There, in the asylum of dementia, he forgot.
The meaning of suffering.
The toll his life had taken on him.
And on everyone he once professed
To love.
And hate.
He lived for this moment.
Only.
Not by choice.
By chance.
That’s all he had left.
The disease had swept clean the cupboard.
Of minutes, hours he had saved and savored.
Over months, years.
Now there was only this one beautiful second.
This whiff of lilac; gone.
This light spreading golden across the Oriental rug; lost.
This chirping sparrow’s trill; fluttered away.
What came before and after; extinct.
YSM | ink 
Sadly poignant, achingly lovely!
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Beautiful words, I love this so much.
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This is so beautiful and sad. Love you!
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Who are we then?
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We aren’t.
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A brilliant reflection and a profound understanding of how this disease impacted our fathers.
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Wow, thank you, Linda. What a terrible disease. I was just thinking the other day about the 78 record my grandparents had of our dads “doing” Hamlet. ❤
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Karen, This is beautiful! How sad that our fathers suffered and are suffering this terrible disease, but how lucky we were to have experienced them as fathers!
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Thank you! We have indeed been lucky. ❤️
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