View From the Deck by Joan Currie

I grieved for my father
most

when he and my mother
left their beloved home
for a care facility.

It came gradually.

The accumulation
of small difficulties,
increasing in severity
day after day.

The tremor in his hand
that spilled food down
the front of his shirt.

The scrapes on his face
from crashing into a wall
when he could no longer
stop his forward gait.

A fractured collarbone
the surgeon refused to pin.

Nightmares
that haunted his sleep.

Bottles and bottles
of expired medication
in the medicine chest.

An unbalanced checkbook
and papers strewn across his desk.

He was such a gentle man–
rarely complaining.

Perhaps it was a mercy,
not fully knowing
how far the disease
had progressed.

I wanted him to remain at home,
surrounded by the things he loved:

the view from the deck,
giant container ships
forging their way inland,

vivid sunsets,

blue hydrangeas,

art books opened
in his favorite wingback chair
beside the fire.

In the end,
he left the house quietly.

Who knows
how much he understood–

of his illness,

or where he stood
in the world.