by Louis Faber

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The last time we spoke
his voice was thinner as if
it knew the end was approaching,
when it would be forever silenced
even if he had no idea it was happening.

There were so many things, people,
places around him that now
simply escaped him, memories written
on the chalkboard of his mind
easily and quickly erased.

He sort of remembered me,
the nurse prompting him that I
was his son, and he said “I have
two sons, I think, although I
am not sure of their names.”

As the call drew to a close
I told him that I loved him
and he said “it’s good to be loved,
I think I once was, but
I can’t remember her name.”

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© Louis Faber

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Louis Faber (he/him) ’s work has appeared in the United States, Canada, Europe and Asia and in MacGuffin, Cantos, The Amazine, The Poet (U.K.), Alchemy Spoon (U.K), Dreich (Scotland), Prosetrics, Passager, Atlanta Review,  Glimpse, Rattle, Pearl, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among others, and was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His new collection, “Free of the Shadow” was recently released by Plain View Press.

Find out more on anoldwriter.com or Bluesky @anoldwriter.bsky.social.

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