Four and half months
of seemingly endless bursts
of brisk midnight air,
after hours of studying that only 
end in nausea
and a miserable drive home.

Four and a half months 
post op
blantently shoving 
a quite necessary hip recovery
to the back burner,
a priority at the bottom 
of the list.

Four and a half months
of processing a death
that has unknowingly
flipped my mind
to a brand new axis.

A death
that has given 
the phrase
“I don’t have a dad”
a whole new meaning.