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This writing was accepted for publication
in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of
cc&d (v232) (the May 2012 Issue



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To Help You Forget

David Thompson

It’s the odor, so clean it makes you want
to gag, that hits you first, as soon as
step through the door of the place
where you’ve stuck what once was
your dad. You see him sitting there
with the other Alzeimer’s zombies
on the day room couch trying to
sing along with some guy dressed
like a cowboy playing folk guitar.
The nurse says they’ll be done
in fifteen minutes; you head back
out to wait in your car.

They called a few weeks ago, said
he was having trouble keeping
his shoes tied, were worried that
he’d trip and fall again. You bought
some ugly Reeboks with Velcro straps,
stopped today to drop them off,
maybe say hello to him, find somebody
to see how else he’s doing.

You sit in the car, windows down,
checking your watch every few minutes.
You can’t help but think about those nights
as a little kid when you and your sister
fell asleep in the back of that big Plymouth
listening to your dad sing that same old song,
something about a cat sneaking in from the stable,
while driving back from dinner at your grandma’s
in Baltimore to home on the Virginia side
of D.C. You dreamily recall him carrying you
out of the car and up the steps to the house,
you clinging drowsily to him all the way
down the hall to your bed.

After ten minutes, you take the shoes back
inside and hand them to the nurse without
looking around, say you think they’ll fit,
tell her to be sure to call you if they don’t.
You walk quickly to your car without looking back,
try to think of a bar you can stop at for a drink
or two on the way home, some place to help you
forget your poor dad and anything else that was
once worth remembering.



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