Dec 2012
When I found my Dad, he was sitting at the kitchen table,
hands palms up in his lap, with a look of peaceful release on his face.
I’d expected to find him in the living room, enthroned in his easy chair,
a crossword puzzle open in his lap, pencil in hand, his balding head encircled by his ever-present halo of dust.
I actually jumped when I turned the corner and saw him there.
I thought they said he was dead!
No, this can’t be, he’s only resting, he looks too alive!
But no, he’d gone. He’d left us all behind to deal with life without him. What was I to do?
He’s too important, and ****** Dad! We never got to really talk. O Dad!
I dropped to my knees and put my forehead on his knee – stiff with his leaving,
and felt my fear begin to rise from deep down inside.
Where have you gone, my father? Where?
So many questions – we’re all talking over one another – each demanding my undivided attention, but all I could do
was look at his hands,
up to his face,
and back to his hands.
Suddenly I knew – better than anything worth knowing – that I was alone and had allowed time, apathy, selfishness, and guilt rob me of my chance to have not just a father, but a friend.
God ******! ****** ****** ******!
I was suddenly angry, then despairing, then angry once more.
Angry at him for leaving.
Angry at those who hurt him bad enough for him to hate faith an anything spiritual.
It wasn’t their right. How could they have done this to this wonderful man?
How could someone have the gall and the bile to point sanctimonious fingers at a man so gentle and kind, and rob me of that connection?
I was brought back to reality by the police officer asking me to call the mortuary.
Who calls the mortuary for their father?!
Well, apparently their children do,
so I stood to make the call.
The somber-suited undertakers arrived, and with practiced ease, began their preparations.
First the stretcher, then the thick, heavy plastic of a body bag – silver zipper glistening like an eager snake.
Then they began to divest my father of the things that made him him:
Sneakers
Glasses
Watch and rings,
and finally his pockets: he had two Swiss army knives, his ever-present Chapstick, three nickels, and finally, a penny.
Sixteen cents.
The most generous man I’d ever known, and the one to whom we could always turn,
was being taken away from us forever,
and I was left with some personal effects,
three silver nickels,
and one penny.
Sixteen cents.
Six-teen-cents.
Six-teen¬-cents!
Sixteen-*******-cents.
Five years later, and I have them still.
© 2012 Michael Hunter
hands palms up in his lap, with a look of peaceful release on his face.
I’d expected to find him in the living room, enthroned in his easy chair,
a crossword puzzle open in his lap, pencil in hand, his balding head encircled by his ever-present halo of dust.
I actually jumped when I turned the corner and saw him there.
I thought they said he was dead!
No, this can’t be, he’s only resting, he looks too alive!
But no, he’d gone. He’d left us all behind to deal with life without him. What was I to do?
He’s too important, and ****** Dad! We never got to really talk. O Dad!
I dropped to my knees and put my forehead on his knee – stiff with his leaving,
and felt my fear begin to rise from deep down inside.
Where have you gone, my father? Where?
So many questions – we’re all talking over one another – each demanding my undivided attention, but all I could do
was look at his hands,
up to his face,
and back to his hands.
Suddenly I knew – better than anything worth knowing – that I was alone and had allowed time, apathy, selfishness, and guilt rob me of my chance to have not just a father, but a friend.
God ******! ****** ****** ******!
I was suddenly angry, then despairing, then angry once more.
Angry at him for leaving.
Angry at those who hurt him bad enough for him to hate faith an anything spiritual.
It wasn’t their right. How could they have done this to this wonderful man?
How could someone have the gall and the bile to point sanctimonious fingers at a man so gentle and kind, and rob me of that connection?
I was brought back to reality by the police officer asking me to call the mortuary.
Who calls the mortuary for their father?!
Well, apparently their children do,
so I stood to make the call.
The somber-suited undertakers arrived, and with practiced ease, began their preparations.
First the stretcher, then the thick, heavy plastic of a body bag – silver zipper glistening like an eager snake.
Then they began to divest my father of the things that made him him:
Sneakers
Glasses
Watch and rings,
and finally his pockets: he had two Swiss army knives, his ever-present Chapstick, three nickels, and finally, a penny.
Sixteen cents.
The most generous man I’d ever known, and the one to whom we could always turn,
was being taken away from us forever,
and I was left with some personal effects,
three silver nickels,
and one penny.
Sixteen cents.
Six-teen-cents.
Six-teen¬-cents!
Sixteen-*******-cents.
Five years later, and I have them still.
© 2012 Michael Hunter
