It is 4:45 a.m..
In the next room, my father moans in his sleep.
He may not be sleeping, as he moans.
He moans at night,
like a baby, or a wounded bear-cub, with its foot caught in a trap.
He passes his misery on,
as I toss and turn and finally fall
Each day, I've tried to move forward.
I've never been as low as I've been the last few days...
...I don't want to leave my bed.
Today, I see two doctors.
One is going to talk to me about my depression;
the other, will examine my eyes,
and, chart where Marfan's syndrome has taken me.
Anniversaries are tough.
On Sunday, it will be two years since my mother's death~~
her passing has effected our family in ways unspeakable,
and ever-lasting (so it seems)....
....and, I miss her solidity, her outspokenness.
Everyone, including my father,
knew where they stood, when she was in a room.
She held nothing back,
and, gave up, too quickly....
....The air escaping;
a fluttering of her heart~~
Now, I see the circle we've traversed.
There is an opening,
between these moans, this crying.
I love the old man, in the next room...
There is no changing him.
In his eyes, I'm still the youngest,
All too real,