Photo by Solen Feyissa on unsplash
The magnolia in Dad's window is shedding
husks like tears as it does every spring
before the petals unfurl their brief, glorious
white salute. I turn away to lift
him out of his recliner and into his wheelchair.
As I move him inch by inch, I hear
him whimpering until he is re-seated. "It's spring,"
I offer, and gesture toward the tree stirring
between what it has lost and what will show.
But he doesn't understand, and I repeat it over
and over until I am shouting the one word.
Finally he says it, too, but his brokenness slurs,
"Sing." I start to correct him before I stop
myself and turn back to face the magnolia blossoming.