The Small Things.
Once, a bedroom window was smashed;
cricket in the garden, single-pane windows, a beer or two.
All I remember is joy;
The mischief felt at the consequence
of a fun and carefree night.
The laughs faded as the world closed in.
I think I could be depressed, he said,
But I knew.
I had met that black dog, and it stole different things.
What we were losing was he himself;
My father, as dementia took hold.
Time has stretched out,
the distance to those memories has grown for us all.
Their weight and colour fades,
revived in photo prints but little else.
There are stories that can no longer be shared,
but I still hold them close.
Texts and messages have long since stopped.
Today’s world is not where he is.
Once a programmer, a photographer, a poker player;
a quick-thinking man that could take the world,
and distill it into beauty or fortune.
He is now in a world shrinking away from us,
and we cannot follow.
