Sick with Alzheimer’s, hallucinating,

the father says, the boy has fallen.

The daughter walks the father to the tree,

points her eyes to the ground where the boy

is supposed to be, assures the father

the grass is empty. The father says, the grass

is empty. The father says, who are you.

The daughter stands close to the father

and says, it’s me. The father looks through

the daughter, believing her face is another

language. The father says the irises are

blooming nicely this year. The daughter,

relieved by this shard of lucidity, says

the irises survived the late frost. The father

says the irises are the boy’s clothes

emptied from the thaw. The daughter says,

remember me. The father says, remember

you’re not who you think you are.

 

 

Melissa Cundieff