my father lives
with strict routines.
Every morning he cooks
the same breakfast:
2 eggs over medium, yolks broken
on a plate heated for 49 seconds,
cinnamon raisin english muffin,
toasted and drenched in butter.
He keeps track of medications with
great care, and logs them with a
color code, filling page after page.
The pills sit in shallow, silicone cups
on his desk, like little powdery life rafts
drifting to sea.
But the true management of his physical pain
comes from prayer and humor
both of which he uses in abundance
and which give him
grace and dignity
unlike anyone else I have seen.
Though he is largely
confined to his home,
my father has brought the world
to him.
His office
explodes
with color,
from his own photographs of
flowers in brilliant hues, cascading
from every corner.
Emerging from my father,
the Doctor,
is a writer and photographer;
one who
knows how to fill his world
with beauty and in turn
enriches the lives
of those around him.
Thank you, Poppa.
Love, Elizabeth
