The Mask Now

Dying, Dad wanted sunscreen. Nonstop. Frantic if withheld. Would say screen, and we just did it. Knew he was dying. Was angry. In last weeks wore red sleepmask over eyes day and night. Would ride it up onto his forehead for brief intervals, then down, pulled by hand that still worked. A bit. Sometimes shaking too much so just cried eyes. Cried now now. Once cried out light— more like a hiss — was there for that. Yanked it quick. Needed it so badly, the bandage, the world is a short place, wanted the illustration of it gone, wanted to not see out, wanted no out. But I am guessing. The vineyards down the slope, each latent bud beginning to plump. In the distance, mountains. Beyond sea. All of it distraction, but from what. A waste of what. The red sleepmask. I should have burned it with the rest but kept it. The pane made trees look painted on. Silky. Not good silky. In the next valley once, hammering. Thought it human at first. The woodpeckers went on for days. A carnival of searching for void. How full void is. Small tufts of grass growing so that I can keep track.Taking root is not an easy way to go about finding a place to stay