Cognizant

I call "Dad, dad," but Dad doesn't answer and I feel strange. I know it's his hearing, I see him, he's right there watching TV, cognizant, cognizant. If I'd screamed, "Dad," he'd turn my way, cognizant, as if I'd whispered and would ask what I wanted, cognizant. These are the shortest, coldest days.

I watched the original Walking Tall with Dad last night and couldn't tell if the film was taking itself seriously, until the end. The bitter end: how could an ending not be tragic? How could it not be unrelentingly cruel? The credits rolled. I felt sick. Dad's eyes were open, wide open, and cognizant, but he was so quiet and still; I hoped he was breathing. What else could we do? There was a strong, cheesy smell coming up from the carpet. We were cognizant of it all.

If I hadn't killed Tony, would I remember him now?
What if I hurt him a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, a million times, but he was alive and well, would I remember him now?
Would I think about him, in flashes, whenever the world got quiet?
Would I remember him now, after having watched Walking Tall , sitting beside Dad, would I?
Would Tony say, "Curt, Curt." Would he say, "Curt, Curt," if I hadn't killed him?
Would I have noticed something different about him, on the inside, somehow less magical, colder and less hopeful, meaner.
He was so full of hope when I killed him.
Would he be full of hope now?
Would I grow tired of him?
Would he grow tired of me?
Would he try a little less to be a friend?
Would I try a little more?
Would we be cognizant of these changes?
Would I say, "Tony, Tony," and would I say "Tony, Tony," and would he say, "You're killing me, Curt."

I spotted two owls a few days ago before the sun set. They were large and beautiful. I stood below them, moved. One owl took off, flapped wildly to another tree.

The other struggled to keep up.