LOST MEMORY

By Cathlyn Aseo

 

He is 94 years old,

with stories that know no end;

in repeat, he goes

like a song on the radio.

His blind gaze

extends longer than the Pan American Highway.

 

He is 94 years old,

and he wears his

plaid shirt

unbuttoned, untucked,

and the sleeves unrolled.

He wears basketball shorts,

like an actual basketball player.

And yet, he knows nothing about the sport.

 

He is 94 years old,

and, he eats like a bird,

live like a bird, and speaks like a bird.

He loves his morning walk,

waving and greeting everyone he sees on the road.

His “thank yous” go on,

like a mass ceremony.

He doesn’t recognize faces, names, and recent conversations.

And yet, he remembers the details of his silly childhood.

 

He spends the whole day, every day

at home.

And yet, the only place he wants to visit is home.

So where is home? I asked.

And after a pause that seemed like forever.

The old man pleads,

“I am 94 years old. My child, can you take me home?”