Category Archives: thoughts

Dad’s wish

Dad’s been long in his grave.
We didn’t know each other, really.
At nineteen, I felt like a fake,
attending bedside vigils,
not knowing what to say or do.
When i got the call, I was silent.
Only silent.
Fifty years ago.

And now, I’m a year away
from living as long as he did.
In a bothered and quavering dream
last night,
I waited by the winter waterfall,
in a cove among dark pines.
I knew of his coming,
and kept an eye upslope
on the frozen bush road.
There were no night noises here,
and so I heard the crunch of his zip-up rubbers
just before he materialized.
It was Dad all right, with his white goatee,
dressed in an overcoat of black oilcloth
and his tweed fedora.
He was carrying things:
one of those flat aluminum saucers you had when you were a kid,
and, in the other hand, a dufflebag.
He came up to me, and set his things down.
He did not speak, but pulled out a pack of cigarettes,
lighting one for each of us.
I could not speak,
and withdrew my eyes from his.
We smoked for a minute or two.
He picked up the dufflebag
and led me by the arm down to the river.
There was a wooden bench there,
and he motioned me to sit.
Beside me he placed the bag,
then made a curious praying gesture.
Then he held up one finger,
in token that I should wait.
I watched him trudge back up the icy hill,
carrying his saucer.
A moment later, he came plummeting down the hill.
He was laughing, laughing.
My Dad was having FUN,
such as I’d never seen him do in life.
As he passed me, he was waving,
and I stood up suddenly.
He was going straight for the river.
In a second, he was gone.
I ran to the riverbank,
just as he went through the thin ice.
He was still waving, and smiled placidly,
making the OK sign as he sunk.
I knew he didn’t want to be saved,
for this was only a cartoon death.
At the end, I struggled with the meaning
as I sat down once more on the bench.
I unzipped the brown dufflebag,
and there was a mewing as I lifted out the black cat.
It was warm, and I gathered it to me,
but it wanted to look at my face.
Its eyes looked into mine and held me,
seeing more than I wanted.
Dad, I thought.
At last, the eyes relaxed,
with a seeming smile of wistful regret.
“Would you like a cigarette?”
I said.

And so. Just so.

Lines of vines
cling to string.
A swooping tree
dangles hard round fruit,
so green.
Rhubarb, tended,
raises its flower flags.
All this, in the brash and beautiful
life of July.

In a late afternoon cruise
I come, by chance,
to the scene of a sad and early death.
Bouquets by the roadside.
A styrofoam cross.
Tattooed tire marks, black on grey.
Fresh and smooth asphalt
covers that which was melted away.
The stains of her blazing death can’t be scrubbed.

In the small silence of an out of place town
I slow, scolded by the flashing speed sign.
Things cry out for paint.
A little care is all they ask.
A pair of toddlers pursue one another,
tan knees all scabbed.
Will they see a good life,
or seep into this stolid realm
of used-to-be.

A face, a fate

I am in a band that plays the odd local date.  Churches, bars, gatherings and the like.
A couple of months ago, after we had finished our setting up to play for an evening in the town tavern, we sat down for dinner and a drink.  When the waitress came to our table, I felt a strong sense of deja vu.  I knew her face from somewhere, and had interacted with her in some way.  Feeling embarrassed, I told her these things, and asked her where she had worked in the past.  She looked at me strangely for a second, reddened a little, and said “well, nowhere around here”.  That was the end of our chat for the evening, and, within a half hour, our band was up on stage playing.  During breaks, I stole glances at her, and was surprised to see her return the looks.  It felt peculiar, and coloured the rest of the night for me.

Two weeks ago, we played there again, on our usual Thursday night.  When we were part way through the third set, and the bar was fairly crowded, two of the waitresses approached us.  They were crying and signalling us to stop playing.  One of them asked for a microphone and she said “We are sorry, but we have to close right away.  Something has happened.”  Word got around quickly that one of their staff had been killed in a crash.  We did not know who.  Nor did we ask questions, but packed up our stuff quickly and left.

The next day, I read something of her eulogy on the tavern’s website.  It was my deja vu girl.  She had been one of their very first employees.  Her name was Rachel.  I still do not know why she had been in my mind, but the feeling had been very strong and immediate.  Strangely, I felt a kind of grief, for someone I thought I knew.  For someone that I would have liked to have known.

Acting my age

From decades of borrowed wakefulness
and broken sleep,
this body gives way.
The hated alarm faces the wall.
Last night’s dreams of peace
unfolded over fourteen unmedicated hours.


This afternoon, with morning coffee,
I take the two steps down to the garden,
descending into green rest.
I understand fewer things now.
I repeat small stories, so I am told.
It makes me timid to tell what I think is a new one.


When I start, I see people’s eyes dart to one another,
and so I know now what is meant, perhaps, by second childhood.
To be seen and not heard.
Without much of importance to say, I quiet down.
Give short answers. Sleepy, Dopey, and Grumpy are me.


And, you know, I try to do things the way I always did them,
then surprise myself when I can’t.
Or hurt myself out of stubbornness.
This is the way of it.
I cannot bear longish reads anymore,
though I thirst for the great writers.
I am almost bereft of Random Accessible Memory.
Perhaps I will pay for an audiobook.
War and Peace might be a bargain.


Although, my sweet,
I would dearly love to have you by my bedside
to read me into the night,
as I did for you, so long ago.
Ah well, I console myself with the belief
that I was not altogether wicked,
because we know there is no rest for them.

Why

There must be some mistake,I think,
but it’s been days now.
These messages from you,
a thirty four year old stranger.
And I say,
and I say to myself
there are lots of crazies on the internet.
Lots of gold diggers.
People who will say anything
under cover of anonymity.
And so, you started with Hello,
um, how’s your day going?
And I, not used to DM’s,
responded just as awkwardly.
You told me how old you were.
Exactly half my age.
Sent me a picture (not a nudie).
I told you exactly how old I am,
and that I am married.
And I said what’s someone like you
want with someone like me?
(I can write a story well enough
to see where someone else’s is going)
And you said that you could not find anyone your age
to love you.
They are all jerks, you said.
Can we just talk?
You said.
I have been through a lot in my life,
you said.
Please, you said.

In my mind, I think cynically that you are after
a rich old man. A sugar daddy.
Or, you’re looking for me to tell you some
private things about my life,
or ask you for sex,
or praise you with compliments
so you can say that I harassed you or stalked you.
But, it’s going on a week now,
and I don’t see you approaching paydirt any time soon.
And, I haven’t said this to you yet,
but any improprieties of mine are already known to my family.
Today, I wished you all the best, but made it clear
that I would never meet you or seek you out.
You said “don’t you want to talk to me any more?”
And I said “sure I will, I just thought you would not
talk to me any more, once you knew how things were”.
And you said “I look forward to talking. Will you
text me later, or whenever you get a chance?”
I say yes, because I get this feeling, Cathy,
that you just might be someone in desperation.
That you want to tell me things I don’t want to know.
And I think, in the words of a sad and desperate song,*
“You can use my skin. To bury secrets in.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* “I know….by Fiona Apple

The teacher

 

 …and a woman once taught me some painful truths.
…and how does a boy, who thinks himself a man,
deal with the searing pain of such branding?
dismissed with derision.
hell hath no fury.
…and why does he care?
but, he does.
needs a confessor.
seeks his redemption.
cursing his own emasculation
by hands perceived unfit.
sculpting justification,
he rides his high horse
and says nothing.

… and, a silent fool is none the wiser.