Dad Shines Like a Lighthouse

Following along hallways to his room

familiar with nursing home sights and smells

his door ajar, half asleep in his lounge chair

he’s there like a flashback, like a photograph

from his youth, the same expression

A face transformed by hollow cheek bones

even at 95 that head of white hair—

now becoming thin and wispy.

my lighthouse, what I had taken for granted, crumbling

I feel an ache in a place he’s grown too small to fill

missing him even though he’s still right there.

Lois Perch Villemaire resides in Annapolis, MD where she is inspired by the charm of a colonial town, US Naval Academy and the glorious Chesapeake Bay. After retirement from a career in local government, she concentrated on her love of writing. Dabbling in family research led to memoir and creative nonfiction. Her prose and poetry have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies such as Ekphrastic Review, Flora Fiction, and One Art: A Journal of Poetry. Lois was a finalist in the 2021 Prime Number Magazine Award for Poetry. She enjoys yoga practice, amateur photography, and raising African violets.