Clutching the parchment in his grasp

He sprints,

ducks,

weaves,

each page flitting in his red hands

as the date marked first of November

Slips from his fingertips.

The memory of Mama slips from her mind,

As casual as sleight-of-hand,

As crafty as deception

As November first becomes a day she deems normal as any other.

And the sound of the heartbeat monitor

Beeping.

Beeping.

Ceasing

is lost.

The rest crunch and crease in his white knuckles;

Screaming, pleading,

Days of August, July, and January

shrieking as they tear,

Her wedding may have been white,

her brain remains as such— blank, devoid.

So does the memory of Papa,

the creaking of his rocking chair

eyes grinning, face unaware

Of what he was about to lose;

and who she had to pick or choose.

He thinks to gain a steady buck

Scrolls of time in store,

And though there’s nothing left for her

Would it hurt less or more?