I looked into my father's eyes
and they were frantic, panic-stricken,
pupils blown and all.
.
I looked down to my father's hands
and they were trembling, unsteady,
they reminded me of home.
.
I focused on my father's breathing
it was erratic, irregular,
it probably reminded him of his life.
.
I remember him wheezing out
"I think I'm dying, this is it."
trembling hands pressed against his chest.
.
And I kneeled down in front of him
my knees steady and unshakable,
and I hoped he was jealous.
.
I remember I looked at him and said
"No, father, this isn't your death
it's simply consciousness"
.
I can still taste the sick satisfaction,
the sly grin as I reckoned,
that those were probably the same for him.
