We learned of my father’s Alzheimer’s

the night he went out on Christmas eve

in pants and a t-shirt, barefoot.

The police were able to bring him home

because one of the last things that’s forgotten

is your birthdate.

Though I suspect until the very end

he will be able to recite the alphabet backwards

that trick he memorized as a boy on his front steps

one hot and bored summer afternoon.

And which he’d do for us often

whenever we’d ask.

Months later in his kitchen

he told me about that night.

“I was trying to get to that house, you know the one.

The dishwasher was broken.

I was trying to find the other house that is exactly like this one

but everything in it works perfectly.

You can just go there and get what you need

and replace what is broken.”

I wanted to ask,

How can I get there?

Leave your shoes behind. Meet me there.

Do you know the way?

We are already there—

healed, whole, unafraid.

Waiting for ourselves to arrive 

To teach those broken hearts to love.