Happily Never After
Grandpa Ed struck a claim in Gold Country
when he was seventy-one years old.
Twenty-two years later he lost his vision
and his driver’s license.
Nobody had time to drive him anywhere
so he sold his red Ford pickup and died.
Mom met with us kids,
to explain how they’d freeze her body
and put her in the same hole as daddy.
She’d get to be on top for a change.
The surprise happened a few months later
when we buried my sister instead.
Last month in the desert, a pair of mourning
doves awakened me too early every morning.
Their cries reminded me of all I couldn’t have.
The last day I saw a mound of gray feathers
in a grove of trees. A rainbow filled the overcast sky while
the crow in a low-hanging branch looked satisfied.
Today I sat across from my friend at lunch.
She told me her husband was in a wheel chair now
and asked about
the early symptoms of dementia.
“You better get Power of Attorney,” I told her.
“Everyone who needs it has a copy of mine.”
It won’t be long now, I’m afraid,
before we have to put the dog down.
One of my darker poems, linked to One Shot Wednesday: http://onestoppoetry.com
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