Moving towards the end now,
who knows how many years
how many will be good ones,
how many spent enduring, 
as mother did, 
memories stripped 
from the uniform of one’s life,
forgetting everything
and everyone you ever knew.

I am afraid of death. 
But more frightening is that
slow leeching, Alzheimer’s
as the coal ash pond
poisoning the recollections of 
loved ones, overwhelming

family football games,
those dinners with laughter,
and those with broken plates, 
tracing tender spots 
with a light finger, 

and for my daughter,
her goofball dad become 
guilt-inducing burden 
to be visited briefly 
once a week, 

of having to hear herself say
to a friend some night
over tapas and cocktails
His death, when it comes, 
will be a blessing,

and meaning it.