Beset By Dementia, My Father Travels Through Time

Beset by Dementia, My Father Travels through Time


I don’t know.
It’s not a loosening, no slack
in the mechanics. It’s constriction, or what,
a tightening against a gauzy fog. It’s 1955
in the Nevada desert. The mushroom cloud
plumes and the photographer snaps my picture
in uniform standing to one grim side.
But do you remember the house on Bradley Street
and Grandmother’s small Italian prayers?
I’d like to go back to the beach house before
we sell it in ’76. The storms that spring brought
sand dollar gems and sea glass. All the best
colors. The blues are the best. Some of my best
friends were dogs. One died alone on the backroad,
but can I see her, please? I want to see her, just want
to pet her. And where is the car now, and what
have you done with the car since the divorce?
Two wives and all the children. And you are one
of them, Michael. Were you there before you were
born? Did you see me save my patients
from cancer? I brought you into the mountain
to see the tourmaline mine. Have we already been?
We’re eating sandwiches in tree shade
after you hurt your foot, and you found
that perfect crystal. What a find.
That’s the kind of blue I like. Like glass, that blue.
And your foot must be fine since you made it
to your graduation, your wedding, your life
and your house and your children and baseball.
I see paper moving across out in front
and it’s so heavy I can’t lift it away.
And I cry now. So many more tears
next year when I retired. It was 1997 and 2006.
But you’re still with me. You still came. And you
always know what to say and I can’t. And you
always find the best colors,
and I’m so happy.