Last month, as the Fourth of July barrage dissolved into the night and people around me gathered camp chairs and blankets for the slog through everyone’s trash back to their cars, I stood there in the dark waiting for one more bright flowering I knew would never come. Now, lying alone just before dawn waiting for the Perseids to flare across the edge of sight as the sky begins to pale behind a rumple of mist where the dark lake waits, I shouldn’t worry about which faint streaking will be the last. I’m remembering my ninety-year-old father bursting into laughter at the Dairy Queen as he ate a banana split, and what was so funny to him was the sudden thought— he said this— that it might be the last one he ever ate, and what could I do but laugh with him and remember later that he was right?
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I liked this. A lot. I think the last stanza could stand alone as a poem. The power of it does not need any metaphors. Sometimes less is more. Good work.
What a wonderful memory of something enjoyed before your father's departure. This was so lovely and beautifully written. We never know when it is our turn, so live life and laugh when we can, so that we may leave a beautiful lasting impression for the ones we leave behind. This was definitely a poem I will not forget very soon. Lovely