scripturient

for dad.

(15 March, 2017)

deep breaths.
count them.
in and out, in and out.
1 and 2, 3 and 4.

his vest rests on his old computer chair.
i remember late nights,
him typing and typing,
until the ambien
called him back to sleep.

the chair he got as a gift
when we almost lost him
to a combo of a heart attack and stroke-
the first of his heart's m a n y suicide missions.
it squeaks and groans as i slide into it
and close my eyes to dream
of a father with his young daughter
curled up in the light of the tv.

the medication sits on the counter;
bottles and bottles of orange and white.
i remember the concentration
on his worn down face as he sorted them-
the names making my head spin.

sometimes i think i hear his cord
dragging across the dirty kitchen floor,
helping his heart pump
the blood flowing through his body,
and i stand in the empty kitchen,
tears pooling,
at the blank countertop
where i used to find
empty pudding cups and dirty spoons,
evidence he had been there,
evidence he was alive.

the hardest thing about losing someone you love-
the thoughts, my skull pounding.
the memories,
desperately clawing at me for attention.
the blown off plans,
when the thought
of following through
makes my entire body shake.

it hurts and it feels like im drowning,
choking on the "im sorry"s
and the sympathetic looks.
there is no help;
h e was my life preserver.

stop.
deep breaths.
count them.
in and out, in and out.
5 and 6, 7 and 8.