By Joseph Oliver P. Lozada and Ma. Angela E. Paracale

You spend your days sitting on a chair,
Reading a year-old newspaper and asking, “who’s there?”
It’s me, Dad, don’t you even see?
Same face, same person, who else would it be?

Sometimes I ask you how you lived your life,
And you’d tell me you don’t recall if you had a child or wife;
But on your good days, you’d remember my name.
Not me, but my name, and it would never be the same.

I’m now only a friend to you from days long past.
Still, I’m thankful for the days we have until the last.
So I’ll just sit with you as you drink your coffee so mild;
As you try to converse with a forgotten child.

And I know the day will come when all your memories will wither,
Even then, I’ll still remember you as my father.
I can only wish there was a way for it all to mend.
But I promise that I’ll always stay with you till the end