There

As if holiness is not talking,

my father just shut up.

"I have to go now. I'll be here, I guess,

but there's nothing I can say

that you would ever understand."

His children, all grown, and angry:

What kind of father is this?"

We assumed dementia, so softly

all suggested, "You need a doctor."

He just smiled. Of course. You see?

"The construct is not true. Not real.

Whatever is in your mind does not exist.

I can't stay here just so I can talk to you."

What is it so important we don't know?

You're normal, and everyone is crazy?

"I'm old. I don't need to agree to eat.

Sex is over. Your mother's gone.

I don't have to live here any more."

Here? What is here? There is no there!

The worst part? He was happy!

No words. Just bliss.

As if there was something else

we could know. Now.

We couldn't say, "Merry Christmas,"

without him laughing.

Anyways, he grew younger,

and we passed in age.

Now, I'm dying, and he came

to say goodbye last night.

Smiling. A kiss. A hug.

Then, I knew.