My Father’s Blue Eye

I still see my father’s blue eye.
He is lying in the hospice bed, the bed of limbo, where he has outlasted so many “Last Rites.”

And he looks at me with his bewildered blue eyes which ask, “What happened here?”
“Really, what happened here?”
He shrugs his shoulders.

His eye remains resigned, but seeking.
He will die at 67, still wondering, what happened here?

Behind him the window still lets in the light,
And blackberries will ripen on their thorny branches as summer arrives.

He will stick around as long as he can,
looking for answers.

I can still see his eye.
And that look.

I carry that with me,
Amulet and memory.