My Dad

In the wintry square of a clinic\'s walls he lay there on the second floor. Uncle helped him to some red. I couldn\'t help but notice; cancer made his skull seem small, my hand cupping his head. Christmas eve, twenty-fourth, we were singing that psalm my uncle and I while my mother stood by. All the while white snow ever so slowly fell from the sky. In a car on the eve of Christmas Day, we tried to get there in time. The motor stopped. And the snow fell ever so slowly as we sang that psalm.