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
He lived for this moment.
Not by choice.
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.