My father cries to remember

he forgot his children,

but tells me he has beaten

the alzheimers; he won't let

us go ever again.

I put one arm across his

shoulder while I drive on,

telling him we know he loves

us with his all his kind heart,

even when we're not in mind,

and I have this urge

to steer us both

into oncoming traffic,

any strength of mine long a fa├žade,

knowing this will replay

over and over and over,

sandpaper on the soul,

repetition removing all roughness,

driving on into the future

over which none of us ever have any control.