The Stay

Text: Elita Fung
Photography: Joel Faber

My father spent

autumn watching 

trees drop their leaves

lying in hospital bed C

where he called for a light up

watch to keep him

from confusion at night.

In the winter, our finite fingers

bent sorting out his old life and

handing over the keys to strangers.

And now my father lives in a home – 

not his home, but a home.

We visit him Saturdays

where the window faces south

and familiar furnishings 

rest for now. He nods to see his 

granddaughter, speaks of a past, 

his fine, pastel hands circling in the air – 

delicate gestures under the hallowed

light of the constant TV.