Surrender

It would have been much too

dangerous to talk about, the curse

that was eating him, that there was

nothing I could really do to stop it.

I was a hell bent apothecary, reading

scientific papers like a sorcerer looking

for just the right spell. I was grinding pills

into fine powder, cracking capsules and

mixing liquids into my miracle witch's

brew. I was flitting around corners, avoiding

his eyes, scouring each surface, reorganizing

this nightmare into another reality. He waited,

his eyes following each of my frenzied attempts

to hold back time, this meager allotment we

had been given, a final prescription. I was holding

back a flood, thinking action would carry him

beyond these drowning waters, lay him down

again, unscathed. I was moving furniture when

he came to me, leaned against the door frame,

looked inside.

This man, my father,

who all his life, took action, knew

it was all I could do, this striving.

Looking back now,

I see that moment again,

my measured defiance,

the struggle in his eyes

and then the light

slowly fading.

His spirit left first,

in that moment when he knew,

there was no more work

left here

for him to do.

Author's Note

Written in response to a prompt...first sentence and subject.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

amazing piece...capturing that feeling that happens when we no longer feel that we have anything left to give to society...when our usefulness has run out...there is no medicine in the world that can alleviate that feeling...when we lose purpose, we lose incentive to live.