Taped to the back of his closet door I find
a reminder of what was once automatic—
six illustrated steps to tie-tying from the internet.

In a drawer, a Korean War Veteran’s medal, cuff links, 
button pins: “Beat Stanford,” “Famous Grandfather.” 
Stash of candy: Peanut M & M’s, a lollipop.
In a briefcase, a book of rhyming Yiddish couplets. 
Shelved, investments in speed reading, Pimsleur Spanish.

We discard potions, empty vials, 
bury pills in coffee grounds and dirt 
encased in a plastic bag.

Something stops you, a memory, slippers, a razor.
You weep, or wail, trying to grasp what has happened. 
It comes in waves. You turn to routine tasks,
acts that reassure: water plants, take out garbage,
pay bills, return calls.
Somehow another day passes.