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Posts tagged ‘father’

Hour of My Secrets

Inner Bomb Squad
Inner gaze. A friend asked what it was like, during the time of my surgeries, to close my eyes and look inside. I replied that a bomb had gone off in the house. I looked in and saw destruction and chaos. I saw my inner bomb squad. They told me to get out, they had a lot of work to do. So I withdrew. For two years. Now, I have been allowed to go back in. Read more

Dark December in This House

On the New England coast, my childhood December in this house was music, music, music. Two years ago, December was Dad dying. A year ago, my newly replaced hips were mending. This December, the unseasonably warm world is magical. I walk along a foggy beach or in hidden woods, fallen leaves rustling under my feet. I visit Mom at her assisted living and, curled up on her bed, our arms around one another, we smile and sing in whispers like little sisters. I light evening fires in the fireplace, clean old dust out of closets, and toss the clutter my parents got too tired to oust. Lilies and white mums draped in ivy and spewing a frond of Norfolk Pine deck the mantle. I listen to the foghorn, the boat horn, the wind splattering rain on the south facing windows. I love being inside in the storm, wrapped in the house, like being in the womb, safe, not yet born. Read more

Fire & Rain

In the MRI tube, “Fire and Rain” pulses through headphones amidst the insistent rhythmic imaging racket. The music takes me back to 1970 walking along Main Street in Falmouth, MA. I went into the little record store two doors down from what is now the Pickle Jar Cafe but was Loreen’s back then and purchased my first LP—‘Sweet Baby James’ by James Taylor. I hadn’t has sex yet. I hadn’t smoked dope yet. Read more

Stillness & Tea

I sip my tea, running my heart’s fingers over the contours of compassion. This wet, cool morning intensifies  pain in my hips and pelvis. With the pain, my stillness intensifies. I am unable to escape so I stay. After months of pain, my mind is worn down with ‘weather report’ remarks to itself, as if today’s alarm bell of pain is an emergency. It isn’t. It is just there. It is time to move on inside myself. As long as I sit still, I am free. This situation allows me, finally, to explore through the world of physical quietude what courses beneath. Read more

Scrubbing Go

Integration comes within the grief.

The small tabletop, eight Persian tiles assembled into a pattern of snaking navy blue vines on a background of pale blue edged along its long sides by two mahogany strips, sits on a luggage stand in front of the south-facing bay window. Read more

Corpse

In bed, alone, under two duvets to be warm on a cold night, I move with music in the earbuds. I focus on my right leg, which strokes the sheets, then my right side. Whoosh, a flood of tears. Strange chunks of brittle, wooden tears. Inside gloom in my skull I see Dad. Dad—-after he stopped breathing, when we were alone in the quiet room before the coroner arrived. Quiet. No longer hushed. Empty quiet. I sat in blunt shock of a din gone. His body cooled and stiffened. His skin drained and tightened over the bones Read more

Shellacking the Tea Tray

The time after my father’s death.

I feel like a washing machine waiting for the agitation cycle to finish. While my hips take their sweet time to heal as an external measure of the life transition sloshing under my lid, I get out the shellack to keep myself busy and away from meddling with my interior rearrangement. Healing was never accomplished by fiddling. Read more

The Scent of Dying

As I slowly mourn, I am in the house where I grew up and where I cared for my father in his last days. The house has become an altar…I remember the scents of his dying. Read more

Flesh Remembering

After my father’s death.

Neck
A friend tells me to lie down. Rest. I will massage your neck. I recline on my back and draw a quilt over me. The friend slides her fingertips along the side of my neck beneath my ear lobes. The pressure is light. My skull fills, images and colors colliding, eager crime scene witnesses needing to tell. My neck remembers my father’s last two weeks of bed bound changes. Read more

Dancing by His Bed

I continue writing about helping my father as he completed his life. At this posting my father has already died, but this piece and the following few posts concern his end days.

December 29: Morphine Day 2
I stand at the foot of his bed. He is in a state of torpor. Though I’m in too much pain to walk, I can stand and sway to plangent Persian music playing on my phone. I feel comforted dancing slowly at his feet. He loves my dance. If he could open his eyes, he would love seeing me. Read more