The sudden arrival of mist behind your glasses told me you understood my
final act of love, the first in too long.
My hand on your forehead,
fingers through your gray whisps,
whispered assurance that you were loved,
a promise that we’d care for mom.
Your final words came later with energy from hospital juice,
a different kind of message, one more typical of our past.
A reminder of prized guns in storage,
a complaint that grandpa’s revolver remained hidden,
a cheeky jab at mom for the hiding,
an undirected sigh.
Two languages,
Two messages of love.
Joel Predd lives Pittsburgh with his wife, two kids, and their adopted pit bull Olive.