Reflection
I sometimes think that as I look into the roomat the chair he sat in,
the crumpled paper
the phone he would only
reluctantly pick up
and then lay claim
that the caller mumbled
usually it was an errant boyfriend,
who if not disconnected
would traverse the quirks of my father
who would say
some
'blithering idiot is on the phone'
We learnt not to rush
imminent cut off
and a laissez faire
'you win some, you lose some'
The dog snoring
my father smoking,
it killed him of course
in the end
but he wouldn't give up
even after we flew back
from heart surgery,
he walked the avenue
to the shops
and bought cigarettes
He mumbled
and was always more deaf
in the presence of a certain few,
I regret that last walk
I treasure our fights
over crosswords
We didn't always see eye to eye
or even rub cheek to cheek,
my father never kissed
or really even cuddled,
he bought me a
cutter that cut potatoes into chips,
two sizes,
he planted me a fig tree
and apple trees
built me a fence
and then died
long after the walnuts had shed
and in his dying eyes
I saw his fear
It made me scared too.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2015-11-01 at 19:20
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