nobody calls you joe or joseph just
cooper, 'cept your kids who call you
"dad" but murph doesn't say that much
anymore when you cradle her in a
tangled mess of blankets and she
sobs for you to stay, she throws your watch
away, you cannot watch her mourn,
you turn your back and slip out the door.
an' now you are 120 years old.
best case, there is someone back on earth to save
worst case, the last words your daughter said
were ones you didn't get to hear.
for a minute it doesn't matter that you're
a three dimensional thing in five of them
that you slipped into gargantua expecting death.
for a minute all that matters is you see
home for the first time in centuries
not dust and breeze of green leaves and blue sky
but the messy red hair of your little girl and
her big eyes peering curiously at the bookshelf
she can't see you behind.
you can't see her very clear anymore either:
your eyes all blurry with tears and despair and
the wobbling light of the door as your memory slips out of it.
you told her you love her forever, that you're coming back:
her whole life is a few hours for you, played out in a tesseract. you leave her your love in a watch hand.