Between

Published in Soundings East (Spring 2022)

My father floats between bedroom and living room.
Between his chair by the rented hospital bed,
bending in to her whispers,
and the sofa that faces the forested backyard,
watching the wild horses that are not there.

He wakes each night,
confused by the empty space beside him.
Demands to know, “Why was I not informed?”
And I bring him out to the couch, curtains
drawn, house still, and tell him that he has lost his memory.
That he sits beside her each day.
That there is nothing more to be done.
That we have a plan, and
he will live with his son and
watch his youngest grandchild
grow into womanhood. He says how lucky
he is to be so well loved. We both weep.
Each night the same.

He is on the couch, gazing out, when she finally lets go.
The day had started just like the days before.
I’d laid out his clothes—jeans, shirt, sweater.
Helped with the buttons and suspenders,
the Velcro sneakers.
Curtsied and called him “sir”
to make a joke of the awkward reversal.
I sit down beside him, wait for him to turn
and settle his eyes on me, and tell him.
He rises to go the bedroom, and I rise, too.
But he cups my chin in his hands, like I was six,
and tells me to stay.

He is gone a very long time. Alone with her body.
I cannot imagine the goodbye.
And when he returns, he is in dress pants and blazer,

oxfords I hadn’t seen in years.
I make us gin and tonics with the jigger he always used,
and we sit side by side, looking out at the deep woods.
He points out the window, and I nod,
the wild hooves pounding in my chest.