I read an old poem hanging in my father’s den and think of things back then. The once-glowing beacon whose light has dimmed.
Our family visit ruled by the quiet tyranny of a grumbly, jealous old man finding solace in unlived lives on screens grey and dark.
A man whose hope is diversion diversion which lasts but a short while while away with all this time.
All this time, I thought the bright glow came from him but now I’m tall enough to see the tube hanging over his shoulder pulling him down, as he gets older.
The tube dripping liquid fangs preserving life intravenously, externally as his internal illness was treated with external props and salves.
I want to blame the prop but the truth lies with him inside for so long.
So long.