To Lay Me Down

Some days go by and my thoughts race and erase with the pace of fleeting time. Then there are days like today when I see things that are no longer in front of my eyes.

On My Mind and More

Well, sometimes I look at Facebook, and I respond literally to the question: “What’s on your mind?” Today I had a whole slew of answers, some of which I verbalized into the empty room surrounding me. Mostly they were superficial and not predicated on anything too important.

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The Standard is Falling, but He Answered His Calling

I know I’m not the first, nor the last, to have a parent in a nursing home. Still, it’s a first for me. Dad is in a nursing home. Since the surgical procedure to insert a shunt back in December, Dad has been home for just a fraction of time.

There are a litany of health reasons why he is where he is. I share this because it has been tearing me up. Seeing him as he is has been tough. I want to reach out and hold him up, to give him all of my strength.

Tears stream down my face night after night. Why? Because it’s my Dad. It’s him sitting there. It’s the guy I couldn’t stand to be away from as a boy. Maybe I could walk, but still he’d carry me, because I was his boy, he could, and there was the love that parents know. He was the face I waited to see at the end of the day. The one who spoke and I listened like all other voices were a mere suggestion of sound. The punchline to the jokes that we still tell. The laughter to the soundtrack of life that we all live. Now, words are scarce.

It is him, and he sits there. I sit close. He knows I am there. I know it even if it’s not always so apparent. We visit if you call it that. I come and I go. He stays there. He weeps with dignity, wanting just to be home. He cries when I leave. I cry after I leave, and into the darkness of night. And in an emotional outburst I am currently trying unsuccessfully to self-contain, I write.

I count the time between motion and the command given

Age lets me question this, disability? or simply not driven?

 

I don’t think it hurts, but I see pain in those baby blues

Fumbling for the things that we don’t even remember to use

 

Why is it, we learn so late to appreciate these small things?

Maybe we need to remember the joy that the details bring

 

Health has failed a little more each time it has come calling

Strides get lost because, the standard, it’s always falling

 

I know where it ends, but where on the path are we?

Better to pray, to trust, I have not the mind to foresee

 

Time is, time goes, we sit quietly, trapped between our ears

What do you say when the only weight is in yesteryears?

 

Maybe tomorrow, it’ll be better that day, just because

Even so, I hide a sigh, it’s never better, better than it was

 

My mind can’t help looking past those eyes into the mirror

What’s to come gets closer but the view isn’t any clearer

 

Looking for the simplest signs, you need not walk a mile

Just turn up the corners, I know where to find that smile

 

God knew, delivering precision from an imperfect brain

Many a sermon, and the vision to preach words ordained

 

The words are locked away now, but their message lives

Cohesion is gone, but we know them by the clues he gives

 

It’s all there, gravity just fails to hold all of it in place

At times I see the freedom by what’s missing in his face

 

No matter the pain; in him, there is breath, there is life

I am just the boy, taking cues from my mom, his wife

 

My eyes close and there they are, not so far away

My lips don’t move but with all my might, I pray

 

There Is Love In Those Eyes

In short, my Dad is in a nursing home. There’s a litany of health reasons why he is where he is. I share this because it has been tearing me up. Tears stream down my face night after night. Why? Because it’s my Dad. It’s him sitting there. It’s the guy I couldn’t stand to be away from as a boy. Maybe I could walk, but still he’d carry me, because I was his boy, and there was love that parents know. He was the face I waited to see at the end of the day. The one who spoke and I listened like all other voices were a mere suggestion of sound. The punchline to the jokes that we still tell. The laughter to the soundtrack of life that we all live. It is him, and he sits there. He knows I am there. I know it even if it’s not always so apparent. We visit if you call it that. I come and I go. He stays there. He cries when I leave. I cry after I leave. And in an emotional outburst I am currently trying unsuccessfully to self-contain, I write.

 

There’s a hole in the floor, where he sits to stare

Something tells me though, there’s nothing there

 

His eyes come up to see the source of sound

They tell me he soars from this chair he’s bound

 

Windows show me their words but lips are still

The empty space in this room silence still does fill

 

All is calm but the hands holding on to His last words

Pages shake, memory frayed, the message not blurred

 

Heads are bowed but the prayers are for those here

Wide eyes tell stories long since past my own fears

 

Lips crack but there’s still no sound, I lean in though

A tear forms, and the quiet pause is all I need to know

 

Somewhere in the depths of blue, there’s a boy free

I would bring him back if it were only up to me

 

Connections are hard to make in this space, but we try

There’s sadness, and hurt, but there’s love in those eyes

 

Senses thrive when the focus narrows to just the one

Time expires today but I know our time’s never really done

 

I stare but I get lost in the visions where they used to be

I linger in hopes that progress has come down to me

 

Gentle like the sun’s arc rising to start each new day

A grin lights those eyes and for now, it’s all okay

 

I get up to leave, he stays, and he wonders why oh why

Away, but never gone, I sit too, I ponder, and I cry

And I write…

Sometimes I just want to sit and cry. Sometimes I do. Usually when the feeling strikes me like it has today, I sit and I write. Often, there is not a single, definitive thing I want to write about, but I usually uncover something, almost every time. I just write, and listen to music. Usually the music is mellow or at least passionate if not bluesy. And I write with the sad, bluesy, mellow, if not passionate, flow; dragging the truth from the places where it hides inside. The tears flow with the slightest tie to the emotional drag of the moment. And I write…

There’s just a lonely man sitting at his desk.

He shares in all his honesty, but saves his best.

 

He feels better at times, but still he lacks.

He hasn’t done the things he wishes, just reacts.

 

There’s a world out there, he wishes to see.

But here, alone in moments, he may always be.

 

Night falls, with the evening sky his escape.

Where would he go if it wasn’t too late?

 

Dreams take him to the quiet spaces he loves.

Then reality hits and he can’t, just because.

 

Life is lived in the way it has to go.

He could do so much more if he only did so.

 

Tears fill his eyes remembering err’s he’s made.

And he sits paralyzed, at times still afraid.

 

A small space he runs to now just to write.

It’s always better here, at least for tonight.