Stacks of books

inside a cardboard box.

The same box

you traded

back and forth

with Uncle Bill,

because he, too,

always had his nose

in a book.

Hundreds of books

in the cardboard box.

I never believed

you’d finish them all.

One by one,

they disappeared,

drunk down

like water.

How many lives

did you borrow?

How many times

were you the hero?

How many times

the villain?

I can admit now

how you drove me crazy.

We’d sit down

to watch a movie,

and before long

you’d say,

“I’m rearranging the living room

in my head.”

Your eyes

were never really

on the television.

Where did you go?

I like to think

I know now.

Maybe,

at the end,

you found yourself

inside one

of those stories

from the cardboard box.

It wasn’t

really dementia.

The story

was simply

too good

to come back from.

I hope

heaven feels

like the book

you could never

put down.

The one

you read

again

and again,

finding

something new

every time.

The one

that shattered

your heart,

then quietly

put it back together.

I hope

every page

ends happily.

I hope

you finally

got to stay.