Guessing | Jared Pearce
I always thought Mom was the John Denver
fan, but there was Dad, post three strokes, thick
with dementia, asking me to play him.
We snuck into the front room which Mom keeps
holy while the family roasted meats and munched
cookies and placed puzzles and talked.
I snapped a guitar and strummed every Denver
tune I could recall. We sat in the dark, me
missing chords, voice mostly dropping out,
and he sat in his elevating chair, tears shining
like Christmas lights on his eyes, his cheeks,
dropping onto his chest from his chin.
We crossed the mountains, dove with
dolphins, became haunted by the loves we
forged and lost, wished our singular wishes.
He wouldn’t say why the tears came, but I know
it wasn’t my beautiful sound. I’m sure he
felt a corner of the past he had missed
in his previous scrambles to pull himself
together for another few days, and holding that
unnamable portion drew a small assurance:
he would die soon, but he lived, and the living
was often wonderful, like an eagle’s flight,
an aching, coming-home kiss, a dusty road.
About the Author:
Jared Pearce grew up in California and now lives in Iowa.
His website: https://jaredpearcepoetry.weebly.com.