• leaflet

    . . .a thin triangular flap of a heart valve. . . a small book usually having a paper cover . . . a medical lit-art e-journal from The Permanente Press
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Prose, Vol 6: Iss 2

When I was only as tall as your knees,

Sundown was a well-established routine:

bath and pajamas and prayers and sleep.

At first I’d wail, my little fists flailing into

the depths of your arms; warm, coaxing, as

you’d whisper tales of elves and fairies,

drifting me off into deep, sweet slumber.

These days your knees bend and ache;

your eyes and ears aren’t what they once were, and

you forget a little more with each passing day.

At first it was where you put your keys, then

what year, then how to speak, and finally, me.

There’s not much to slow your memory from

fading into a world that only you know.

Now it’s my turn to anticipate the Sundown –

you grow confused as the light fades, and I

prepare the bath and pajamas and prayers and sleep.

At first you protest, pacing and anxious, scared

until we reach the bed, comforting and familiar.

This is what our nights have become, yet

I still cherish our Sundown.


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