It’s happening, Dad.
I can’t see without my …
Well, you remember.
It’s all fuzzy now.
You warned me that
someday print would
shrink. Warranties, washing
instructions, recipes would blur,
require me to lengthen my arm.
You told me not to read in dim
light or sit in the front row at
movies, as if this could somehow
delay the inevitable. We were always
the ones people nudged, “Can you
read this for me – I don’t have my
glasses.” And now my glasses are
everywhere (the memory,
your other omen, is going, too).
I flip them up and down
depending on text size. I can
still see road signs and people
crossing the street. I can still see
you asleep in your chair …
newspaper splayed on your chest,
glasses stuck in your steel wool curls.
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