Tick.
You watch his chest rise and fall,
erratic slow, labored. You watch
his eyes flicker. You watch the heart beat,
remarkably steady, the last soldier
against death, throb with each heartbeat.
Tick
You remember his teaching you to water ski,
teaching you the fine art of restoration,
how to change a spark plug. You smile
at how his love for far away places
has become your own.
Tick
You remember the beatings, the anger
that underlied his raconteur veneer,
the nights he succumbed to his demons
and held them at bay, barely, by bourbon
and sleep,
Tick
Pictures flash by. Christmases, Thanksgiving.
His joy in family. His immersion always in something –
sailboats, old cars, history, things that allowed him
to lose himself in minutia, to lock himself in
the safety of details, perfectly worked.
Tick
Snippets of revelation come to mind,
brief moments when the walls came down
and the man your mother described slipped out,
where his heart showed itself, a good heart,
a fearful heart, well disguised, the heart of a young boy
in an old man’s body.
Tick
The reality hits. This, today, or tomorrow, or soon,
is the end. The shrouded journey is nearly completed.
Each breath labored. His mind lost forever.
His lessons though, live.
You wait.
Tick
Quarry House 
This poem is stunning in it’s observation, memories and more….that you were able to capture it…
Denise’s writing late last year about her mom and your poetry about your dad…it brings back so many memories of my recent past. You have captured it so eloquently and it slams through any heart that reads it. When I was going through it with my parents I thought often of a line from the movie, Steel Magnolias. At the daughter’s graveside she remarks that she was present when the wonderful creature drifted into her life and was there when she drifted away. For anyone who has experienced a loved ones departure that line says it all…how very special a gift it is to be there. Hard, heartbreakingly hard, but a forever a golden moment. Prayer for you and your dad.
wonderfully said, Susan
[…] The other part of it, I suppose, is that it was a way to escape … escape an unhappy childhood growing up with a difficult father who could fluctuate between happy creativity and alcohol fueled anger and absolute control. A friend of mine (Tom) is currently sitting with his elder father in the last days of his life. He is a wonderful poet and he wrote this poem today of his experience that reminded me in so many ways of my own father. ( click here to see it ) […]
[…] Tom in spirit during his vigil, posting our support as he shared his experiences through his moving poems and posts. One of our Bedlam friends was able to attend his father’s memorial service. Donna is now […]