The Truck
He couldn’t remember much
At the end of his life,
My Dad.
He didn’t know who
I was.
He’d wake up
Pointing at nothing.
He asked where
His mother was.
What? my mother said.
She’s been dead for years.
No, he said,
Pointing,
She’s waiting for me.
He’d mumble,
He’d whisper
Something and
Stare into space.
Well, we’re going
To say a prayer now,
My mother said.
Ok, said my dad.
Hail Mary
And so on
Now and at
The hour of our death
Amen.
He looked over,
He was holding
My mother’s hand,
I don’t like that
Last part,
He said.
We all laughed.
We watched his old face
Mouthing no words,
His cloudy eyes,
Bones of
His hands
Pulling on the
Sheets,
Over and over,
Picking at the fabric,
Like pulling weeds,
Faster and faster
Staring at the
Spot by his leg.
You took my truck,
He said
What? my mother said,
You don’t remember!
You were driving all
Over hell and creation.
Lucky you didn’t kill
Someone.
You did,
He said,
You took my truck.
I’m doing everything for
You, she told him.
You’re not doing anything
For me,
He said.
Yes, she said.
She started crying.
Here, I told him,
We’ll get you sitting up
A bit better.
You can watch the
Yankees.
Ok, he said.
I got my hands
Under his arms
And heaved him,
Best I could,
So he was sitting
Up almost straight.
I turned the TV on
And found the ballgame.
He leaned back
Into the pillow
As the Yankees
Came up to bat.
You took it,
He said,
My truck,
You took
My truck.
Photo Credit: Janet Meyer from Pixabay
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