Sitting on the floor with me behind the ottoman,

He crawls around it,

And growls like a bear.

I giggle.

Standing beside his telescope,

I can’t quite reach the eyepiece.

He lifts me up.

I glance through it and see stars.

I giggle.

Sinking into his old, blue, striped chair,

He reads his science magazines and dozes.

I sculpt his fine white locks into peaks and curlicues.

I giggle.

Leaning back in his pristine, new leather recliner,

Made for the aging and unable,

Made for people who can’t.

Face in the sun, he snores.

I giggle.

Propped upright on the ocean-blue couch,

His caregiver urges him to hydrate.

He stutters,

Struggles to say “thank you.”

I cry.