I walked in the park with my father, who is old now.
He aged so gradually, he's grown quieter,
even quieter than before.
This walk is slow and windy, it is purposeless.
My face is different when I think of him, it changes in size,
it gets smaller and cleaner, more and more clueless.
His face changes too, it is simply, younger,
the most alert it's ever been.
I think back and wonder
about everything mysteriously.
I earned my memories. I earned knowing that once,
you laughed with me, really, really hard.
That once we stretched our palms out toward the sun,
to let the light go through our hands.
We saw our tiny, little veins inside.
Friendly, thin, veins.
Now it's time to think about the universe.
I write about something I remembered once,
something that had to do with—