A Fading Out

I was always impressed by Dad’s ability

To chat fluently about nearly anything.

We bonded over music, mostly jazz,

A reminder of his trumpet-playing days.

After I share news of a friend from Maine,

An off-key moment signals a change:

His silence lasts several beats.

“What is dementia?” he finally asks.

Fighting the tempo of my rising panic,

I chatter away to fill the void—

Hoping the flutter in my voice isn’t heard.

In the rests between beats, horns blare.

That dementia was the word he’d forget

Still invades my mind in a looping refrain.

Now wonder and sorrow sing in unison—

In the space of a measure, our fear is shared.