Tuesday flannel

I remember him most

in the autumn chapter

his Tuesday flannel warmly lit

by the porch window

steam gently curling upward

from the cup he refused to wash

because he was the only one who came to drink

at this precious morning shrine

where upholstery and La-Z-Boy levers

carried him to worlds far from his country home

captured on pages framed by famous yellow lines

his autumn was warm and golden

with Mathis tunes and his own vibrating baritone

to match

campfires in the mountains

where he burned the hot dogs

and showed me how to filet our catch of rainbow trout

but autumn cannot stay gold for long

stories of spring forsaken by his fading mind

and the winds of the winter to come

would slow his bones

and corrupt the chance to hear us laugh with him

he reads my lips to see how much I love him

then pats me on the hand

he needs the warmth

an embrace would throw his brittling body off its axis

I remember how quickly the winter came

on the heels of an autumn hurricane

the surging flood in home and heart

then stillness

for which we were not prepared

an empty sense of peace

where his Tuesday flannel warms my arms

and I finally wash his cup