He gets confused sometimes—
gets up, walks a few steps,

–pauses–

looks blankly ahead
then turns around,
sits back down

slowly.

The doctor says it’s dementia;
it’s just the beginning, really.

It’s in his eyes, though:
everything.

He’s not forgotten
anything;

I’ve not, either—

not the way he sat
with me quietly
through the years:

my parent’s divorce,
failures
in efforts that could’ve given me
a way out,
losing my grandmother,
missed opportunites
that might’ve mattered.

He’s been there for all of it—
the last eleven years that settled me
into adulthood.

He’s graying now;
the black hair he had once
has lightened around his chin
and above his eyes.

He’s handsome as ever, though,
when he grins,
and that’s what makes it
alright—
his aging.

We’ve been happy
along the way,
me and Dylan.
He’s been a good dog.

Originally published in Issue 69 of Burningword Literary Journal, found here.