I made Dad a plate of sunny-side-up eggs,
brought it to him on the overstuffed sofa.
His condo a miniature of his life with mom.
Furniture crammed in, not meant for a place
that small. The hutch behind his shoulder
contained Bermuda cottages, swizzle sticks
in Irish shot glasses, Hummel figurines.
In front of him: reruns of Seinfeld, election
coverage, incontinence ads. Only the glass
coffee table dared reflect his new life back.
He hid it beneath newspapers. He ate off
a dish with a village painted on it. People
laughing. Festive houses. The runny yolks
provided a sunny sort of day. He ate
watching TV. I left him that way. I left
him because he liked it that way. Closed
his door slowly, peering through the crack.
An aperture: I took his final photograph.
