Bad Hair Day

Regression is a remorseful passage to observe.

When it finally seemed as if my baggage in the form a high school backpack was irreversibly lost like brain cells through the hour glass, boom... the regression.

Am i cool enough? Does this shirt make me look fat? Why won't she call me back?

Sitting at the foot of Pop's hospital bed, atop the open space left behind by the leg amputations (the downside of growing old with diabetes), "I've got nothing to say" is how i break the silence. "Then don't say anything," intones my father. Sage advice or the morning meds kicking in? So i stay as long as i can. Shedding silent tears. As if out of a leaky, achy broken heart.

I feel so empty.

-HM Robinson