Dad, we have known about the thief
stealing your abilities-
to tinker or drive,
to sit still or, sometimes, to walk.
And now, he steals from another,
taking your person to talk to,
leaving her speaking and smiling,
but not as the person you knew.
A loved one lost
with no flowers or condolences,
no space to fill with grief-
just hope, and confusion, and decline.
Illness can be worse than death,
a thief with a sick sense of time,
a hundred losses adding up to despair,
a hope for a good day; but no way, to lock the door.
This poem was posted for the previous week’s poetry prompt, Write a Letter. I’m not sure if I made such a personal letter relatable enough for others to appreciate it as a poem but I do like how it ended up.