You told me your heart aligned with the trees;
the sun almost always caressing your bare scalp.
Your hands spoke to the soil,
and as grains of earth passed through your shrunken fingertips, colors emerged from your tears.
You told me the ocean is where you’ll always be;
your delicate breaths touch me in the windy sunlight.
I can feel you move the clouds to let the sun embrace me, yet push them back into their puzzle when I need the shelter.
But something you never told me
was that you were hurting.
And that’s why we never knew.
Every time you ate, each bite caused you agony.
Mother told me you could barely eat even two bites
of the dishes you tried on your honeymoon.
Hawaii had always been your dream;
there had to be a reason you spent it all in bed.
But something you never told me was that you were hurting.
and that’s why we never knew.
You told me the reason for this was because you feared
not being able to marry my mother.
You told me, with more than only words, that you loved us both.
You told me you knew
you weren’t going to die.
I first watched your skin
lose its vibrancy.
Your tan, chubby cheeks evaporated into thin air, as the remaining flesh was suctioned off by chemo’s vacuum.
You told me the toothpaste was too “minty.” It was the first time I heard you laugh
since our house became your hospital.
You told me to keep my mother afloat,
and that everything will always be okay. But at sixteen, you were the boat.
You told me you wanted to show me what a real father was like.
You did this everyday of my childhood, and even now, solely with your energy. Your heart no longer physically beats, but you exist forever in me.
