We walk in the park
my father and I.

It is later days
and he is not doing well.

Other people know my father is dying
but they do not mention this to me.

Perhaps I sense this, though,
for I try to have conversations with my father
about his life, asking about his past
in ways I have not asked before.

I am seeking to collect stories.

He is responsive
but, of course, his memories are not as strong
as they could be.
He is old
but there is another factor.

“The electro-shocks definitely blocked out some things,”
he says.
“That was when?”
“I was probably fifteen, sixteen.”
I calculate the years from this: the end of Truman.
“And why were you getting shocks?”
“I was in therapy,” he explains, “I asked to be.”
“And this is what they did to you?” I cringe. “How barbaric!”
“I asked. Well,” he amends, “I agreed.
They said it was the best bet to cure me, and I did feel better after the shock therapy.”
“So it worked?”
“I guess so,” my dad shrugs.

I learn from my father in his later years
while he is dying
– though I only learn the last part
later still.