In the back corner of my living room,
where the television clatters,
my father is sitting in his favorite chair.
I stop for a moment,
noticing its simplicity only a few spaces away,
like a dry barren desert.
The older he journeys,
the less perceptive he is to things like me-
the youngest child.
But now I hear nothing
as usual, no conversation or words,
a suicide of silence.
The entire house
broken, yet full of swallowing love
used to always be chaotic.
I remember when the waves crashed,
each grain of sand completing the other,
how a family could be so whole.
I pushed my leg up,
back to the solitary confinement of my room,
reminiscing the beach.
This is life, dad.
Sometimes I forget. I hope
you know how much you mean to us, and more.