I’m not crying because I knew him.
not crying because I’ll miss the visits
miss watching the decline
house to nursing home
walker to wheelchair
crying because this smell will stain
this moment, these clothes, this girl
I’ve watched this become him home
thick plastic curtains, styrofoam cups
unopinionated cream colored walls
tripping over his own tongue,
confined to the wheelchair
his situation never seemed especially hopeful
not that he ever minded
in whatever superhero shirt he was wearing,
the Peanut Gallery were his best friends
but today ashy, white skin
blank, faded eyes
weathered like a map after time
of folding and use
the man in the next room
turns a page of a newspaper.
I wonder, how many roommates
has he had
a nurse laughs in the distance,
how many has she seen?
how many times has this
exact scenario happened?
family standing and swaying
like dandelions in the wind
trying not to make eye contact
with the man in the bed,
the pictures on the walls,
or at each other while pretending we’re not here
out of options, my gaze is
cornered to his nightstand
torn, yellow-once-white pages
of decades worth of comic books
stick out in awkward places
a blue batman clock stands
like an old man walks with a cane
I’ve watched these few items
trail behind him as he moved from
house to nursing home
walker to wheelchair
because these memories will change
this moment, these clothes, this girl
I’ve watched them become his friends
a pile of pages and a clock
that hasn’t ticked in years
the call came at 3am the next morning
my dad said the nurses cried
now the man in the bed with wheels
is in a box that’s not going anywhere
except away, up there
and down six feet under
asked to say our last goodbyes,
my dad tucks the omnipresent
relics and remains of his life
into the coffin and whispers
“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown”
and that’s when I started to cry
