There was
a squeaky swing
on the back porch of
3653 Red Maple Road.

It was
summer.
Peace
and
calm.
The mild sun
shone pure serenity.

The Don
and I
approached the swing,
twisting wires
and replacing links.
Wrenches,
screwdrivers,
drinks,
joy,
and love.

It was
winter.
Cold
and
dismal.
The grey sky
tossed out flakes
of frozen tears.

David!
Oh, David!
Remember
the squeaky swing?
he laughed.

Mom
inquired for further explanation,
as if
memories
were nothing more than
mental exercise.

There was
a squeaky swing…

I stared at his face.
His heavily aged visage
tightened.
His wrinkles
deepened.
His eyes,
blind,
struggled
to focus.

I saw
the gears
turn
in his mind

I saw
him remember

Minutes of silence
felt like hours,
as a single
drop
fell into my lap.

I traced its origin
to my eye,
that had not for a
second
removed itself
from his.

Begging,
pleading,
hoping
that by some
miracle
my attention
my focus
my memory
would somehow
find its way
to him,

that my
burning eyes
would somehow
reignite
that spark
of mischief
in his.

His visage
loosened.
His wrinkles
filled in.
His eyes
glazed over
once again.

My heart
sank.
My blood
thinned.
My mind
wept.

But I saw him
remember.

I knew
he
remembered.

I would
never
forget.