I pushed my sister off a dock once and she hit her head.

There's a lake in North Georgia

That my family used to visit. 

The water was always cold,

The cabin was always run down,

The boat never had gas,

And the bunkhouse was haunted. 

I dream about it some times.

The decayed skeleton of a family

Nestled in Blue ridge country,

Where the hills tower over.

I watch the brim swimming around

The staunch wooden posts 

Submerged in the waters

To keep the boathouse afloat. 

I hear the cascading waves crashing 

Into themselves as a pontoon splashes lazily past.

The crack of thunder and the flash of fireworks on my deafened ears,

Tremulous and bobbing 

In a sea of onlookers on a holiday special event. 

I remember the trellis hiding moldy inner tubes, and the spiderwebs 

We'd pluck from our hair

And laugh and shiver at the thought.

I remember hot dogs and spaghetti Bolognese. 

I remember dropping a Mickey mouse fishing rod into the murky depths. 

I remember planning to escape

The bull shark waters in terror

Of what I had seen on television. 

And I remember when you told me,

Wrapped in your own decaying skeleton,

That you would end your paralysis 

By driving off the dock. 

And without a scream for help,

Or even a splash of that damned cold water,

You would sink.

And one last breath would be all that was left of my father. 

I remember wanting to understand you, as you changed over the years. 

How someone so vibrant and brave

Could become quiet, timid, fearful. 

And I guess I finally get it now. 

That your last sensation on this earth,

Couldn't be the wheelchair that nursed you 

From independence to irrelevance.

It had to be the mother of your safety

That cradles you one last time

In a swirl of bubbles and diesel

Where you close your eyes 

And remember what it was to be whole. 

I get it. 

Doesn't make hearing it any easier.