Thirty

The microwave hums. He watches the mug rotate through smudged glass.

Twenty-three

Yesterday his father asked him what day it was. Then asked again. Then a third time, smiling each time like it was new.

Eighteen

The coffee inside is from this morning. He’d made it fresh, then forgot. Let it go cold while answering emails.

Twelve

His daughter starts college in the fall. He still sees her at four, holding a crayon like a weapon, attacking the wallpaper with red.

Seven

The doctor had said gradual. Had said comfortable. Had said words that meant nothing and everything.

Four

He thinks about how there’s no beep for the body. No clean zero. Just a slow dimming, a forgetting, a cold cup left too long on the counter. There is no exact moment when we cease to be.

Two

One

The microwave chimes.

He opens the door. Wraps his hands around the warm ceramic. Carries it to the living room where his father sits by the window, watching birds he won’t remember.

“Coffee, Dad?”

“Oh, wonderful. I was just thinking I could use some.”

He hands Dad the mug.

And goes back to make himself another cup.