Before he awoke from the coma, she sang love songs to him every day. Now awake, he remembers the voice, not the woman, not the wife.
Mom white, me not so much. I’ve got Mom’s hair when wet, Dad’s when its dry. Mom used her shampoo on my hair. Bad idea. Strands now at war.
He told a joke at Thanksgiving dinner, but no one understood his words. He died so in bits — easy time payments to Parkison’s hard contract.
Weeds lick at the roadside cross, savoring the dereliction. Cars hurtle past. A lonely soul yearns for a ride home.
He kept climbing as I yelled “no!” Now, in place of the tree, the roses my parents planted in memory, where I prick my finger and say “no.”
He noticed the bridesmaid’s cleavage, her legs. Pondering if he’d have a chance with her, he looked up as his bride started down the aisle.