the worry i bury

90 words for 90 years

He drifts, unmoored as my mother in the space before her passage.

But I’m not afraid, my father insists

of dying; it’s living I fear—

The gnarled claws and

their invisible grip around his neck and

the room smells tired, old skin and half-formed ideas

the sweet breath of release floating closer and

because he is dying, my father’s life becomes mine and

in disembodied voice, he retells the stories

his memories crumbling like sandcastles and

one day,

no one left to remember and

this—

is the worry I bury