I could write a poem that
no one could tell was for you.
It could be the dwindling noise of Jeopardy,
The diminishing dreams of answering the wrong question.
like the pigeons that flew further and further
over the rusty swing set you once pushed me on.
I could write about the injection of insulin
that kept you hanging on to the last minutes.
Or the endless card games of war.
The slapping of cold plastic against the grainy wood table.
Your fading sight that was only kept together
by your magnifying glass. Eyebrows separated by a deep wrinkle.
or the fluffy
teddy bears whose batteries slowly ran out.
The grippy socks which hung off the end of you
matching Lazyboy chairs.
Or the scorn received by grandchildren swinging their chairs.
I could write about the smell of old lady and stale moth balls,
or the lunch we had that afternoon before those pigeons flew away.