afternoon light from the window illuminating
the Japanese faces in the photos
we’d placed on the table in his room
the day he was brought here

he hadn’t opened his eyes so he never noticed them
and if he had, he wouldn’t have said anything
because he’d stopped talking a few years after
he was diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia

it started with waking dreams, getting dressed in a suit
to go to the college or city hall in the middle of the night
then the shuffling walk, micrographia, falls, choking
while eating and drinking, not knowing the year

one time, he tried to leave the retirement home with a bag
of grocery items because he had to feed his family
another time, he went to the front desk because his long-dead
mother and sister had come to visit him

when dusk fell, we turned on the lights in the room
one of the signs the end is near, the hospice
nurse told us, is the feet turn dark
lifting the blanket, I saw his feet were purplish

the dying are aware even if they don’t
respond or acknowledge your presence
so you should talk to him, the nurse had said
I said, it’s okay to let go, Dad, you can let go now

we sat with him for another hour, and I knew
I had to say some final words of farewell
Dad, I said, I know things went wrong
between us long ago, but I forgive you
and I know you forgive me too

Gail started crying but I was remembering
whippings with a belt when I was a little kid and
the time he broke a six-foot piece of stair railing
across my back when I was a teenager

at ten o’clock he was still hanging on to life
but we had to get back to take our little dog out
we turned out the lights and left him
without saying another word

about an hour after we got home
the hospice nurse called us to say it was over
sometimes people wait to die, she said,
until after everyone has gone