Our past entered your grave today, secrets intact. I provided you with years of vicious, knowing stares that you couldn’t escape: I hadn’t forgotten the feel of clammy, hairy hands under Superman pajama bottoms. Grandma stayed furious at my persisting disrespect: I called you “Morris”. Grandma was baffled: I never allowed my child, my young cousins away from vigilant watch. In your demented years I wondered if you remembered. When you called me my father’s name, I afforded you no gentle reminders instead, gave hearty kicks under the table “What the fuck are you talking about?” “I’m Erik”. They pretended it was Alzheimer’s that made you ask Mom over the phone “What are you wearing?” but “pervert” is not a criterion for dementia. As I was your nearest geographical relative, I’d play nurse for you while grandma worked. Hoisting you around the house your arm sliding off my shoulder and down around my waist. How frequently you slipped, your frail body crashing onto a bed of urine stained carpet. I took pleasure in nagging you; Drink your water, Take your medicine, Put on some clothes, Roll over. Family commended me for my dedication to improving your health. I hoped I wasn’t doing you a favor, add a pill here subtract a pill there. Your sugar counts spanned the spectrum of unhealthy while I voiced my concern. “What will happen to Morris?” So there you are, in the ground as I casually, maliciously throw dirt over the coffin. I can breathe my sigh of justice, then head back to burn cat pissed sofa and carpets. Letting my son run free in the house that was yours.