He reads the paper

More pate shows now through his soft silver hair, glasses glint under his thick brows, white and black. His head sinks between thin shoulders; elbows and forearms prop him up. He scans, the oscillating heater hums, the oxygen tank whistles. In boxers and grey socks he complains of chill but won’t accept a sweater. He is thinking about art and what’s at the movies. Politics. Under his chair, Scout the cat dozes, listening.

Making a tincture

The materials arrive before I ask for them,
A generous gift from the coastal California hills.
I hear the instructions—
A project no one can do but me.

My old addict mind helps me
Envision options, research carefully,
Drive many miles to assemble blossoms,
Jars, cheesecloth, good brandy.

I slow down and breathe
Feeling through memory what to do.
Using thumbs and forefingers,
Roll each blossom apart, extract minute stems,
No scrap unnoticed

Inside the pint jar
A drift of green warmth, amber crystals
Before trickling in the brandy.
I hold the jar, breathe in the scent and pray:
Thank you for this gift

That once bound and hindered me
So it can help him feel better
May he taste it and feel warm, calm, good, and a little hungry

Expired
I fix polenta and ground beef for him.
Reach for the jar of pasta sauce.
It is very dark
In fact
The top is black.
The lid claims this sauce expired
Seven years ago.

One Box a Day

I arrive with the fantasy of bringing up one box a day from the garage. We will open it and exclaim at treasures, he will tell me important stories. Instead, Dad sleeps most of the time.

While he is awake we have food and are companions. While he sleeps I shop, clean, do homework, do laundry. I go back and forth past the hundreds of boxes. There is too much in the present to be done.

I see the stacks of magazines with fresh eyes. Corners piled with mail will probably not be addressed while he lives here. I will probably be the one to address them.

Burning the Hat
After cleaning all morning and a nice lunch
I put the kettle on. I turn the wrong knob.
First I notice an acrid smell in the back of my throat.
Then, the distinct lack of a smoke alarm. His acrylic knit hat, touching another burner, in flames.
Dad is lucid. I put out the flames, he turns the burner off. But, more flames.
We are quiet as a dream, scared but efficient.
He remembers where the extinguisher might be, I find it. He pulls the red tag, I aim and shoot.
It takes more than an hour to air out the apartment. Again and again
I find myself at that moment where we both gazed at the flames,
His oxygen cord trailing behind him. I’m here to care for him
Yet he saved us.
Small hairs of soot blanket the kitchen and dining room.

Memos to Self
After the conversation I realize
Every day he is not sick from chemo
He is sick from cancer.

Whatever got him here
I don’t want it.

When bringing jars to him
Open them first
Then close them lightly
So he can open them.