He has never looked so small in all the years I've known him, but
his face looks longer now,as the bags below his eyes slowly invade his cheeks, ever determined to stretch beyond their natural borders.

Sometimes he looks like he's sleeping with his eyes open. It appears as though there is an invisible film cultivating on his iris, a second eyelid so he might sleep even while awake.

These days, Daddy sleeps a lot, and he no longer tends to part his hair. My whole life, he was unpredictable, a shook-up soda bottle of soul. But if there was one thing I could count on, no matter what, it was that his hair was always perfect. It was always neat and proper and hard with hairspray, down to the very last strand. He kept a spare bottle of hairspray and a comb in the safety compartment of our minivan, but he would mind his hair even if he wasn't going out, even if he wasn't seeing anything but his breakfast and his newspaper all day, he would endure his lengthy morning ritual all the same, taking more time than my mother to get ready.

Two days ago he voted in the primaries, and he drove for the first time in over a month, ever since the drugs stopped working. It was only a five minute drive to the school where we vote, but my mother called me up all the same just to share the good news.

I remember doubting that he'd make it to the polls, thinking to myself how he might never get to use the new paper ballot system, and how much this bothered me. I was relieved he had this chance, and all the same appalled at how such a thing was a relief. I was struck by the importance of there being one less potential never in his life, but mostly, I was just disturbed that it was a potential last.