These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge br of bulky redwood were purchased for my father br twenty years ago, then plumped down in the yard br where he seldom went when he could still work br and never had stayed long. His left arm br in a sling, then lopped off, he smoked there or slept br while the weather lasted, watched what cars passed, br read stock reports, counted pills, br then dozed again. I didn’t go there br in those last weeks, sick of the delusions br they still maintained, their talk of plans br for some boat tour or a trip to the Bahamas br once he’d recovered. Under our willows, br this old set’s done well: we’ve sat with company, br read or taken notes—although the arm rests br get dry and splintery or wheels drop off br so the whole frame’s weakened if it’s hauled br across rough ground. Of course the trees, br too, may not last: leaves storm down, br branches crack off, the riddled bark br separates, then gets shed. I have a son, myself, br with things to be looked after. I sometimes think br since I’ve retired, sitting in the shade here br and feeling the winds shift, I must have been filled br with a child dread you could catch somebody’s dying br if you got too close. And you can’t be too sure.