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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
Words:
455
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1/1
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My Father

Summary:

This is as personal as it gets. Nothing is made up in this poem. This is how I experienced my father's death.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:


My Father...

Died in the summer I turned twelve...
He had been sick a long time,
in and out
of hospitals.
Long stays, short stays.
Cancer in the lymph glands,
or something that came with it
did the final deed.
Before that his skin was burned brick red
by the radiation treatments,
and his tongue was as black
as a Chow dog's.
Once my sister and I were awakened
deep in the night for a silent ride to
the emergency room.
Mom drove, Daddy sat in the front seat,
a blood soaked handkerchief held to his nose.
That was the night I learned what 'hemophiliac' meant.
That night I sat in a waiting room with dust bunnies
under the seats, while my sister slept on a bench.
That night I wondered if he might die, and I dismissed it.
He was, after all, Daddy.
He was short and wirey and banty rooster tough.
He smoked unfiltered cigarettes, Camels and Lucky Strikes.
He drank beer and whiskey and coke or rum and coke.
He had a tattoo on his arm, an eagle and a scroll.
He had Indian black hair and eyes, and his name was Bobby Joe,
not Robert Joseph, thank you.
He was, without doubt, the strongest, bravest man in the world,
with the possible exception of my grandfather.
I knew, deep in my childish heart, that such men couldn't die.
The last day of sixth grade was my official exit from childhood.
And I had good news.
A C had become a B, the stigma of ordinariness ("I don't have average
children.") expunged.
He would be so proud.
At home my aunt took me to my bedroom
and said quietly, "Baby, he's gone."
I did not, of course, understand.
"Your Daddy passed away. He went peacefully."
How to describe it? You can't know
unless it's happened to you.
A curtain descends. A weight forms in you belly,
a lump in your throat.
The world will be forever changed,
never quite the same.
Something important has gone out of it,
away from you.
The next time I will see him, he will be in a metal box,
on satin.
He will be wearing a sports jacket,
this man I never saw in anything but shirtsleeves.
The eternal darkness of beard waiting to erupt on his jaw
will be caked over by peach colored makeup,
and my sister will cause a scene by demanding its removal.
My grandmother will scream, and fall across his chest,
keening as bereaved women have
since time began,
and two of my uncles will have to pull her away.
...and all I can think to say
as the tears begin
is, "He didn't even get to see my report card."

Notes:

This orphaned work was originally on Pejas WWOMB posted by author Scribe.
If this work is yours and you would like to reclaim ownership, you can click on the Technical Support and Feedback link at the bottom fo the page.