July 30 2013
I saw my father
looking back
eye-to-eye.
I flinched first,
then we both averted our gaze.
The same high forehead
of grey receding hair.
Drawn cheeks
more gaunt than I remember.
Laugh-lines
of grey receding hair.
Drawn cheeks
more gaunt than I remember.
Laugh-lines
more deeply set,
bracketing my mouth
in a permanent scowl.
The mirror
now steamy
like soft focus film.
Like any boy
who wants to grow into the man,
and hates to be told
he has his mother's face.
But yes, I can see the resemblance.
Although now, late middle-aged
I find myself tending
to my father’s side,
in his 10th decade of life.
now steamy
like soft focus film.
Like any boy
who wants to grow into the man,
and hates to be told
he has his mother's face.
But yes, I can see the resemblance.
Although now, late middle-aged
I find myself tending
to my father’s side,
in his 10th decade of life.
Who moves softly
through the thickness
of a failing brain,
as if knee deep
in some viscous liquid
he cannot name.
He was always sweet-tempered
my mother says;
at least that hasn't changed.
We are contained
in 3 lbs of grey glistening matter
mostly fat.
As if the air got at it,
bacon drippings
left in the pan
gone dry,
to a hard rind
kind of yellow.
Its slippery pathways
stiffened,
fluid connections
fixed.
How ludicrous, how poetic
through the thickness
of a failing brain,
as if knee deep
in some viscous liquid
he cannot name.
He was always sweet-tempered
my mother says;
at least that hasn't changed.
We are contained
in 3 lbs of grey glistening matter
mostly fat.
As if the air got at it,
bacon drippings
left in the pan
gone dry,
to a hard rind
kind of yellow.
Its slippery pathways
stiffened,
fluid connections
fixed.
How ludicrous, how poetic
we become our parents
no matter what.
So I know what may come
when I am old.
So I know what may come
when I am old.
And even if luck, or best
intentions
leave me intact,
it will end, as it does.
leave me intact,
it will end, as it does.
Because while we all die differently
suffer more, or less,
the great equalizer
is death;
the one irrefutable fact
wrapped in a mystery.
Wondering
the great equalizer
is death;
the one irrefutable fact
wrapped in a mystery.
Wondering
about nothingness
consciousness expunged;
the drunken dreamless sleep
when even time
is meaningless.
In the right light
I can easily see
my younger self.
So I let the mirror mist,
consciousness expunged;
the drunken dreamless sleep
when even time
is meaningless.
In the right light
I can easily see
my younger self.
So I let the mirror mist,
razoring away
on that familiar face
on that familiar face
above the wasted frame,
the tell-tale stubble
as grey as his.
Who sits
Who sits
most of the day
in a stained terry-cloth robe,
dozing
in a stained terry-cloth robe,
dozing
in his favourite chair.
I know that if I wasn't consciously restraining myself, I'd write a lot more about death and dying. Perhaps I'm more morbid than most. Or perhaps it's my lack of religious faith: the consolation of faith in an after-life, of faith in ultimate justice. (Although I've observed that the kind of deep abiding faith that can truly console is far more rare than mere professions of it. So it's not just atheists who are troubled and wondering.) On the other hand, I can't conceive of a more intriguing question, and find it hard to imagine people going through daily life and rarely reflecting on death.
I must have lost a bit of weight recently. Or maybe it was the light. But I glanced in the bathroom mirror, and saw myself turning into my father. I know this is a common feeling. If it hasn't to do with appearance, then it does with behaviour: noticing we're doing what our parents did, saying exactly the same things to our kids; the sort of things we scorned when we were young and foolish. As I said I'm always very conscious of mortality and contingency. But this fleeting look brought me instantly closer to the end.
My father has grown thinner, shorter, more stooped. He favours one leg. He sleeps a lot, frequently nodding off in front of the TV. It's a challenge for my mother to get him dressed and out every day. His personality is unchanged; but he is losing cognitive and executive function. So their dilemma shouldn't be about me. And I apologize if this poem seems an overly solipsistic take on a bad situation. But a poem works best when it's told from the 1st person. And this is how I felt, the instant I saw that fleeting resemblance: a doomed sense of fatalism, as if I'd suddenly seen my destiny fixed, right there before my eyes.
(And a brief apology to my mother. She would never dress my father in an old robe, or something unwashed. But I needed to reinforce the image of decline; so it somehow had to be a terry cloth robe, and it had to be either stained or threadbare. The single syllable of "stained" simply fit better.)
I know that if I wasn't consciously restraining myself, I'd write a lot more about death and dying. Perhaps I'm more morbid than most. Or perhaps it's my lack of religious faith: the consolation of faith in an after-life, of faith in ultimate justice. (Although I've observed that the kind of deep abiding faith that can truly console is far more rare than mere professions of it. So it's not just atheists who are troubled and wondering.) On the other hand, I can't conceive of a more intriguing question, and find it hard to imagine people going through daily life and rarely reflecting on death.
I must have lost a bit of weight recently. Or maybe it was the light. But I glanced in the bathroom mirror, and saw myself turning into my father. I know this is a common feeling. If it hasn't to do with appearance, then it does with behaviour: noticing we're doing what our parents did, saying exactly the same things to our kids; the sort of things we scorned when we were young and foolish. As I said I'm always very conscious of mortality and contingency. But this fleeting look brought me instantly closer to the end.
My father has grown thinner, shorter, more stooped. He favours one leg. He sleeps a lot, frequently nodding off in front of the TV. It's a challenge for my mother to get him dressed and out every day. His personality is unchanged; but he is losing cognitive and executive function. So their dilemma shouldn't be about me. And I apologize if this poem seems an overly solipsistic take on a bad situation. But a poem works best when it's told from the 1st person. And this is how I felt, the instant I saw that fleeting resemblance: a doomed sense of fatalism, as if I'd suddenly seen my destiny fixed, right there before my eyes.
(And a brief apology to my mother. She would never dress my father in an old robe, or something unwashed. But I needed to reinforce the image of decline; so it somehow had to be a terry cloth robe, and it had to be either stained or threadbare. The single syllable of "stained" simply fit better.)
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