By Nicole Collins Starsinic

He lies beside me on the bed, unmoving
covers pulled up tight beneath his chin,
his limbs all weight and gravity.

Keep him company she whispers in the kitchen
but really what she means is keep my father
from trying to lift himself skyward.

Outside the window, the pine tree stands sentry
and I watch him watching the light filter through the branches
fixated on the barren limb halfway up the trunk.

If we were different, I would lay my head upon his chest,
feel the heavy warmth of his skin, listen to the still beating of his heart.

But we are who we are so in the deepening shadows
of the late afternoon, I lay my hand upon his.

for R.C., 1944 – 2010