Thoughts from the Abyss

There. You. Are.

It's been only four days, yet the roads to you already seem familiar.

I shouldn't be this familiar with this path to you.

I miss the old road.

I enter the parking lot, take my ticket, and drive up the ever-twisting spiral.

I glance at the varies cars parked.

There are so many here tonight.

Leaving my car, I begin my walk on foot to you.

I go down the same elevator as I did the night before. 

I pass the same metal bench. 

I go through the same sliding glass doors.

Soon, I come to your door.

It's closed.

That's new.

I ask to open it.

Memories of me going through your house door 

without a care in the world 

play in my head.

I get the okay.

And there you are,

in a bed that is not yours,

in a powder blue nightgown, 

you would never wear of your own choice

hooked up to wires, 

the sounds of beeping,

pads attached to your legs to keep your blood flowing

from lack of mobility.

There you are.

You are sleeping.

So, I stay quiet.

You wake.

I smile.

Hi, Grandpa.

I am there.

Looking at you.

But you are not there.

I take your hand in mine,

careful not to hurt your wrist.

Silently saying with every stroke,

I'm here.

You wake.

We talk.

I laugh.

You roll your eyes.

You sleep.

Good night.