Echoing Samson During Her Rehearsal

Lightning flashes, illuminating the apostles

As we rehearse.

My wheeled-warden waits, parked in the aisle,

Off to the side.

Tomorrow they will exchange reverent vows,

And she will leave.

At my home, her pink bedroom waits

Mostly empty

Except for the old Doberman who naps there,

And memories:

Of her delight at a small Christmas tree

Beside her crib,

Of the wind-up diver who kicked his legs

In the bathtub,

Of rolling out pizza dough and wiping flour handprints

Off cabinets,

Of the orange backpack bouncing as she climbed

On the school bus.

Will the walls and wooden floors of the house remember

If I forget?

Those moments remain intact even as my

Myelin unwinds.

My legs need help to lift me now, and

My hoarse voice fades,

As if scissor-wielding Delilah were here,

Cutting my hair.

Tonight I will pray again for the strength

To escort her

Blond curls down the aisle one last time,

And say loudly,

“Her mother and I,” so that all

Will remember.

• © 2013 American Academy of Neurology