Memories

Mourning Doves

We brought Dad home from the hospital today,
shrunken beyond any image we'd ever had of him
after his prolonged and intense bartering with death.

Now there are two walkers vying for floor space
in their tiny house and oxygen lines turn it into a map
of a continual contest between death and life.

The oxygen machine's endless hiss soothes at some
moments, irritates at others.  Unlike it,
all the care we give fails to bring relief.

Eat! They urge each other in futile attempts
to fend off further weight loss.  Yet, their
ninety-plus bodies flinch away from food.

They have no appetite.  It is clear to see:
their minds shout EAT!
while their bodies say NO, No.

No matter how much effort the cooks
pour into preparation of their favorite foods
they can barely force themselves to take a bite.

In an afternoon run to the store to search out
a new inspiration, I hurried to the car.  Before getting in,
I looked up to see perched in the naked branches

of every tree on their acre, and only theirs,
at least fifty gray mourning doves,
murmuring, murmuring, murmuring,

Mourning, mourning, mourning.

Western Wear

After five fierce years hanging on, finally
both their persevering spirits found peace.

After the last memorial, the final goodbye,
family members wandered around home

pausing to run a hand over the familiar
boots, suspenders, and western hat,

as much a part of him as the gnarled feet
that fit the boots, or the wavy white hair

beneath the hat, the suspenders he'd snap or
spurs with a hint of rust now collecting dust.

Old horse collars no longer pliable, saddle
blankets and lariats lost to time  

Everywhere they looked, everywhere
there was a wealth of western wear to see,

everywhere but in his chair where the old 
cowboy always sat, it stood empty. Empty.