My father had good days and bad but stayed
upbeat until the end,
confident his doctors would save him.
He survived cancer twice, in his 40s and 60s,
and a motorcycle accident at 72, which left him partly paralyzed.
But he learned to walk again— another near miracle—
and at age 76, diagnosed with emphysema, finally
quit cigarettes: It was easy, my father bragged, I could have quit years ago.

And for years he hid his dementia, clever man,
until opening his car door in speeding traffic. Once, near the end,
I visited my parents in their RV park
in Florida. My father, a retired electrician,
earned extra money working odd jobs for neighbors.
He showed me a new swimming pool
with arcing neon lamps and submersible lights,
pointing to the very last fixture he installed before hand, eye,
and memory finally gave out.

I imagine, decades later, the swimming pool still unfinished,
the half-lights aglow in memoriam.
I rarely visit Florida anymore, or the small Jewish cemetery
where my parents lie, grass and scrub land
wedged between an industrial park
and busy interstate highway.