Rescue

I remember so clearly what never happened.

Rescue

I see him up ahead
when the car lights
cast his shadow,
stumbling into the ditch.
It is then I know him,
as I should,
and run ahead
to hear him
puffing and coughing
into the night.

He does not know me
in winter clothes,
in darkness, unexpected,
but grasps the hand
that I extend
and pulls me down
into the snow.
I sit with him
along the road,
and, waiting
for his strength,
I tie his hood
and offer him my gloves.

I urge him
to his feet.
He has no bearings
but kicks the gravel
out across the pavement
with frozen feet
and drunken staggering.

I lead him
by his shoulder
to the doorway
and the light
and watch him enter,
weary of his days.
He does not turn
or thank me.
But that is
just as well.

For who can be
accountable
for impossible memories?
I only saw
the thirsty demon
that led him out
into January night
and left him
addled and alone
and was not near
to see, at fifty-five,
death take my father.