The last six months of his life, my Father faced a lot of strife.

He hallucinated about lights across the street and thought invading aliens with green feet had landed and Dad was stranded.

He paced the living room and dining room, too; Mom couldn’t settle him down and he didn’t wear shoes.

She heard him in the bathroom one night it seems spraying Lysol in his face; he thought it was shaving cream.

He could not stop walking to and fro and mumbling; Mom went to bed many nights grumbling.

That was six months of what she called hellatious and she knew Dad was not being mendacious;

he just couldn’t talk at all to tell her what was going on so she assumed he slept when really he was still walking at dawn.

It’s a pity that such should befall such a man who did not harm to others nor try to sham

anyone he ever met.  All loved him but they never bet

his life would end on July fourth after six months of walking floors

and having bad dreams all the time.  God took him when Dad was in his prime.

I know and understand that he’s now better off but I’m sure he would’ve loved one more round of golf.

© 2007 George E Thompson