pictured words

Mom and Dad used to live
two doors down from us.
Some mornings
Dad would walk over,
sit down for a cup of coffee
and a few laughs.

Eventually, coffee became
an excuse for a talk.
For questions.

One day his question was,
“Will you keep this in a safe place for me?”
He opened a tiny matchbox-sized box,
pulled out a piece of paper that was
folded, and folded, and folded, and 
he read it to me.
It was a poem.  The first he’d ever written.
He was a young boy, and it was to his dad
who had unexpectedly passed.
I watched him fold and fold and fold
and carefully put it back in the box
while I pondered why suddenly,
after close to 7 decades,
did he need me to keep it safe for him?

One day his question was
from his doctor:
“Do you have a plan in place for if
she becomes violent?”

One day his question was,
“Do you think I need to worry
about her beginning to wander?”

One day his question was,
“What will I do
the day we wake up
and she doesn’t know me?”

Two doors down from us,
Mom and Dad used to live.

© Marie Elena Good 2026

Mom passed February 9, 2018. Dad passed 35 days later. They were interred together on September 8, 2018 — the anniversary of their wedding.