The sun takes its time to fully emerge. 

It’s a bluish gray when he pulls into the driveway. 

Dad’s home now. 

They live in a remodeled ghost white ranch in Westport, the black-ribbed shutters are just for show, 

they don’t close to protect from storms. 

You notice one of the ribs is cracked. 

Westport is located far enough from the city of your birth, but not so far that you don’t hear 

gunshots at night, 

or drunk drivers crashing into poles,

or hapless prostitutes being beaten by miscreants. 

The sounds of that city decaying wafts over the South Watuppa Pond 

and lands 

like ash 

on neighboring villages. 

Your mother watches the car through the window. 

She flings open the front door before you exit the truck. 

You had every intention of giving her a piece of your mind, 

to chastise and warn her to never keep secrets. 

Then you see her. 

The thick black bags under her eyes, wild gray streaks standing defiant upon her crown.

She looks tired.

The kind of tired that comes from fitful sleep. The kind that comes from being in the company of Death. 

 

‘Hey sweetie.’

Her musical voice now sounds like a dirge that hangs in the air and clings to nothing. 

Then you notice the overgrown grass. 

The small trees planted years ago have grown in wild twists which could use a good pruning. 

You take your time getting your bag from the back seat. 

 

You embrace and enter the family home. 

It's an open design. A few unimportant walls knocked down to brighten up the place. 

You came for a visit, many years ago, when they first bought and began to remodel the place. 

How different it looks now. 

From the entrance there's a short hallway that leads to the grassless backyard. 

To the right are the kitchen and dining rooms, 

and just beyond, 

in the living room, 

you notice the top of your father’s head poking up from behind the kitchen counter. 

He’s lying in a hospital bed, the kind that at home medical equipment companies sell.

He’s facing a large blank television. 

Mom walks up to him and says ‘Look who's here Antonio.’ 

It’s like she’s announcing an old friend. 

She opens the blinds to let in a touch of the cool blue light. 

You walk up to his bed and your father’s eyes glow. 

He yells your name and smiles as wide as he can. 

 

The last time you saw Dad he was proud and strong. 

The Dad before you now is delicate. 

So thin and wispy he could be swept away by a gentle thought. 

You embrace him. 

You kiss him. 

You take another good look at him, your heart’s ripped out of your chest, squeezed like a blood orange.

 

You didn’t know it at the time, but you’ve only got three months left with him. 

After he’s gone you will never see him again, except in dreams or memories. 

You settle into a routine. 

Dad’s jovial. 

Your sister-in-law, the nurse, not the new one, tells you that he’s kept his sense of humor. 

Your brother tells you that death has made him funnier, like he’s laughing at the pettiness of the world. 

 

Your new sister-in-law tells you to ask Dad about “frog disease.” You ask him about it. 

He says in the hospital he had a Brazilian nurse who was not as fastidious and organized as he liked people to be. 

She would knock over or move around the objects he kept on his movable side table. 

 

‘She’d move the tissues over here,’ he shows you on the table he has in front of him now, ‘or move my juice bottle like this, it was like a frog was jumping on the table’ he chuckles. 

‘And what does a frog do when it jumps? It kicks all the things around with its long legs’ 

 

You laugh. 

You laugh as you listen to the voice that has changed so much, 

a voice that has been replaced with another’s. 

Like someone lowered the volume of it and replaced the bass with treble. 

How odd it sounds. 

But, it is difficult to talk with the oxygen tube in one’s nose. 

Highly flammable. No smoking. 

 

You spend the second month watching your mother slip in and out of denial. 

It hurts. More than you can bear. 

 

‘Who knows how long he’ll be with us. Maybe he can make a recovery? It’s possible!’ 

 

Mom has taken a leave from work to be a full time caretaker. 

The state gives her a tiny stipend to do so. There are visiting nurses and physical therapists. 

Some of them he likes, some torture him with exercises. 

There’s a little black machine with pedals near his leather chair where he sits most of the day. 

He is meant to cycle on the half bicycle from time to time. 

One of the therapists, a square shaped firecracker, forces him to move with the aid of his walker. 

He’s winded easily and needs breaks. 

Even the slightest movement makes him tinkle. 

The physical therapist says to Mom ‘There’s no reason he can’t use the bathroom. We should try to wean him off the urinal jug as much as we can.’ 

Mom agrees. She tells Dad. He’s dismissive. 

At one point the physical therapists will stop coming. 

Family members visit occasionally. 

Your nine year old niece sometimes spends the weekend. 

She belongs to one of your brothers, the divorced one, the MMA brother. 

Your brother’s divorce was not amicable. 

In fact, it was still ongoing while you were there.

It made family history. It outlasted, by a few years, the divorce of uncle Joe. 

Perhaps because of this he always makes sure to buy Sammy a bunch of new toys each visit. 

The basement is a graveyard of Samantha’s forgotten toys. 

 

One of your cousins, a simple man whose past has tread marks all over it, stops by with a cannabis gel to ease Dad’s discomfort. 

‘It’s very strong,’ he warns Mom. ‘Use a tiny amount, only a tiny amount. Here, just like this.’ 

He shows her exactly how much. 

One time, while distracted, Mom misjudges how much.

Dad spent that day laughing at the slight wave of the curtains, at Sammy’s confusion, at the blank television. 

He pedals on his false bicycle. 

He calls out to his granddaughter, 

                                                       ‘Watch this Sam Sam.’ 

He pedals faster and faster and makes motorcycle noises with his mouth. 

                                                      ‘I’m a motorcycle.’ he calls out. 

We all have a hearty laugh, the type of laugh that can’t fully break through through darkness, but laughter nonetheless. 

 

Of all the visitors, your Aunt Marie is your favorite. She always brings homemade Portuguese food. 

Aunt Marie's husband died of cystic fibrosis. 

You didn’t know much about it until she told you, 

in graphic detail, 

what it’s like to die of this disease.

 

‘I’m so sorry I missed the funeral,’ you say.

‘That’s ok sweetheart.’ 

‘I didn’t know he died until much later, and I wasn’t sure how to get in touch with you-’

‘Don’t worry.’ she places a warm hand on yours and smiles. 

 

She has brought over one of Dad’s favorite dishes from the old country, back when they called that verdant green jewel in the Atlantic home.

 

‘Smells good Maria.’ Dad says.

‘It is good, Antone, come and eat at the table.’ 

This was contentious. This was a fight.

Dad preferred to dine in his bed, however, Mom and Aunt Marie were having none of it. 

Mom reminds him of what the physical therapist says: ‘You gotta move Antonio!’