On Becoming Dust

I see my father disappearing before my eyes,

As he tells me that his arms are hurting.

When I ask, he says

“They’re not sore, they’re in pain.”

Yesterday he tells me he’s getting surgery for cataracts.

Two years ago he tells me he has diabetes.

Six years ago he chases loose balls at my soccer practices.

Nine years ago he chases loose balls at my brother’s baseball practices.

Ten years ago he shoots three’s at our basketball practices.

Many years ago he plays in a “Life After 40” basketball league.

“Life after 60 is different”, he tells me as he’s continues to disappear.

When I look closely I notice

a few more grey hairs on his head,

a few more veins on his hand.

I begin to wonder where the crows have flown

that left those tracks around his eyes.

The same color as mine,

the same eyes as me.

I remember that inside our family’s garage sits a bike.

The relic of a young man.

Similar to mine.

Similar to me.