how he both stayed and left himself,
what had been his body,
his life, late that night when
stroke severed senses
how four of us, a few others
tramped along, pushed him,
we filling in,
filling up his silence, his awkward moves,
all wanting something to be different
how he saved his blue-eyed smile
flashed it broad and cheery, and
how we each returned the favor,
a bit of laughter when we could
And if you asked, I could go on and on
about copying, routines and how he delivered
the daily news, his two girls in the cart
riding high the pile, pointing out each door,
And how driving skills remained though words failed him,
how smiling and retaking one test and another and…
until persistence earned a road test, and
his driving skill, the smile of the stiff officer.
If you were to ask him anything, he’d brighten;
find a word or two
like fine or bad on long-time-ago, speak it
with slim shadow of emotion,
return to his book, his 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle,
or a TV sports event unless it’s time for dinner.
Then he’d release his chair’s footed rest,
move to get his jacket never grumbling
at the stuffing he must do to cram one
weak arm into a length of sleeve.
Us moving on, making one more day
remembering friends who stayed,
places we grew, a long road or two,
and those we yet hope to touch:
remnants for my writing pen and you, if you should ask.
Jpenstroke's Blog 
