He was white.
But, not the
--"controversial at political dinner parties" and "this racist comment will cost him the election kind"--
Stark, snowy, riveting white.
His hair was always victim to the static that came from
the mountain of pillows that topped off his hospital bed.
He always lay there,
a beacon in the middle of the dark, mudd brown, living room.
I suppose it was hell to live the last of his life there,
but at six, I thought he was God,
living on a cloud that was Heaven.
I remember his warm hands, their blue lines, and their wrinkles,
the way his smile never met his eyes--
and his eyes said he had more in his mind than his mouth could say.
I would study him for hours while he slept,
Hoping he would wake up, be glad that I was there to cure his loneliness,
and give me secrets to the world.
Once in awhile, I was lifted to the wintery heights of his bed,
Set beside him to talk.
And his warm hands would cup over mine,
Whilst I told him about the dandelio