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Poem

The night before my father’s heart attack,
my brother and I were splayed across a bed
watching a re-run of “Happy Days”
and eating Oreo cookies.

My father sat stiff and upright
in a wooden chair.  By then, his back
felt like it was being pierced by daggers
and the pain made his face pale and clammy.

I offered him an Oreo,
one of his favorite snacks,
as I gently twisted apart the dark discs
to reveal the snowy treasure
in between.

He watched as I scraped the cream
from the dry, crisp chocolate with my teeth,
then he turned his head
and said, “No, thank you.”

I never wondered if he knew
in those final hours
that his emerald eyes
were about to close forever,
or if he felt death spread inside of him
like a cool drink.

Because if he did,
he would have taken the Oreo,
if only for one small bite,
just to feel the gritty chocolate,
that ordinary joy,
crumble over his tongue
one last time.

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