When I look at my father, I can’t understand
That his worn-down body, which has been
Through the spacious fields of California,
The toxic jungles of Vietnam,
And the reviving waters of Alaska
Will not leave this room again.

When I hug my father, I am reminded
To be careful not to touch
Those sickly little snaking tubes going into him.
I don’t wonder what goes through them.
I just care if he gets better
So we can play Legos again.

I have pushed my father down the hall
In his wheelchair before, thinking
This must be a sign.
If he got out of bed today,
Then he will get out of bed tomorrow.
Optimism is diverting, but reality prevails.

My father is going to die.
My stuffed bunny will not make him better,
Nor will my basket of toys.
They do make him happy,
But they can’t make him better.
My eyes are wide open, and I still can’t see it.