It is difficult seeing your parents diminished. My mother and father both have struggles with memory and mobility now. It almost seems like a betrayal to even write those sentences, like I'm somehow dishonoring them. My family has always been very private. Not sharing a whole lot of personal information.
However, I am an anomaly. I write a poem, tell the truth. Write a short story, truth. Essay, truth. Blog post, truth. Each word, truth. That's what writers do.
That's what Track K. Smith does, too.
Saint Marty firmly believes that.
The Speed of Belief
by: Tracy K. Smith
In memoriam, Floyd William Smith 1935 - 2008
I didn't want to wait on my knees
In a room made quiet by waiting.
A room where we'd listen for the rise
Of breath, the burble in his throat.
I didn't want the orchids or the trays
Of food meant to fortify that silence,
Or to pray for him to stay or to go then
Finally toward that ecstatic light.
I didn't want to believe
What we believe in the rooms:
That we are blessed, letting go,
Letting someone, anyone,
Drag open the drapes and heave us
Back into our blinding, bright lives.