birthday candles

this poem was written at the end of july 2016, shortly after my dad's 59th birthday. at the time I didn't know that it really would be his last.

His hair is white and withering away
his wrinkles are quite defined
his muscle tone is fading
sometimes his voice shakes
and he cries a lot more than he used to

But he still smiles like he's building something.

Every word he speaks tells a story
always past and present tense
and I can't remember the last time I heard him utter the word "future"

Every statement he makes is a sermon;
he speaks less loudly but more boldly

And every time he says the words "thank you"
it feels like an introduction to goodbye

it's July 14th
So we gather around
singing the same old happy birthday song

And I start to count the candles

57, 58, 59...

59....

59...?

With no sign of 60 anywhere to be found.

The numbness I feel makes time slow down
and I listen to the words of the song
I look at him, smiling, happy
and I wonder what he's thinking

Is he wondering the same thing?
Does this birthday chorus not sound haunting?

A light-hearted song has never made me feel so hollow
A candle light has never looked so dim
The future has never felt this blurry

I'm trying to celebrate his life
but it's hard when I have so much fear... about his...

I just want to see candle #60.
And 61, 62, 63, 64.

Maybe I hate birthday candles
because sometimes they are tricks
Or because sometimes they go out before you get the chance to blow them--
before you get the chance to make your wish
before you get the chance to hope that it might actually come true

But maybe the reason I hate birthday candles this year

Is because a birthday wish should never be an

anything-but-death 

wish