For his sixty-sixth birthday
the nurse brought my father spice cake
I don’t know whether he could
eat it himself or she fed him as
part of her duties.
He said, “That’s about as
special as it gets in here”
after hanging up on me
three times trying to
answer the phone
with his bent
hands.
I don’t know my father
well enough to help him live
or die better. I don’t know
how tired he is of needles,
how he mourns his hands,
whether he thinks more about
his life or the damned TV.
I don’t know if he is
afraid of dying, if it is more
the emotional fatigue or the
physical sadness.
I don’t know how long
he will last with all of his
organs clamoring like children
to prove who’s got it worse,
but he has started telling
me he loves me.
—Paul Terranova, Madison