Sick with Alzheimer’s, hallucinating,
the father says, the boy has fallen.
The daughter walks the father to the tree,
points her eyes to the ground where the boy
is supposed to be, assures the father
the grass is empty. The father says, the grass
is empty. The father says, who are you.
The daughter stands close to the father
and says, it’s me. The father looks through
the daughter, believing her face is another
language. The father says the irises are
blooming nicely this year. The daughter,
relieved by this shard of lucidity, says
the irises survived the late frost. The father
says the irises are the boy’s clothes
emptied from the thaw. The daughter says,
remember me. The father says, remember
you’re not who you think you are.