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My portion of what is left 

of his ambulatory life lays 

scattered in my garage. 

Get rid of it, 

                                  he said. 

The old word processor, once white 

now a yellowed body sitting 

on the cool ground, its 

plastic warmed and warped, bending 

against time like the wood of a live oak

tree. The acorn couch next to it, his haven, 

the only place his fire engine body could 

decompress each evening, a faithful 

knot of keys hanging at his hip, 

the remnant of a faraway problem steaming

off the top of his head, face glistening 

like the old mahogany leather once did. Its 

skin faded and cracked, the musky fragrance rising, 

weaving with the scent of his warm chest, 

arms locked me in like vines, reading me

stories fresh off the processor, tales of 

ethereal creatures who hide 

under the leaves of the forest floor, 

the same imps who’d appear in the crooks 

of our hearth just minutes before

bedtime. A crackling fire 

could send them into frenzies, much 

like him after a long gaze at the dancing 

flames. I haven’t seen a creature or 

a fire in years, his forehead doesn’t glisten with 

purpose, the scent of his embrace 

soured by the culprit that sent him away, 

eyes snuffed by the thing 

that told me to get rid of it all.