My doctors want me to stay ahead
of the pain—a slow marathon,
the finish line a marker
where it no longer hurts to breathe.
 
After my father had heart surgery,
I walked with him through the hospital corridors,
his arm, looped inside mine, tightening
when he couldn’t catch his breath.
 
We stopped at the end of the hall,
gazing at the Hudson, and he recalled his journey
to America, his boat gliding past the statue,
and how tiny he felt, how terribly important.