I remember dad lying
in a hospital bed breathing,
but not much more than that.
Hours were spent watching assistants
come and go.
Televisions droned through the hallway
from other rooms,
echoing through my head
like an old movie playing at
4 a.m.
after pulling a drunk.
Rousing moans from dad
punctuate the tedium.
Sweat pools under my thighs
from the high-quality,
leatherette upholstered chairs
that only one hundred thousand dollars
of medical care could provide
in a hospital room.
Mornings
brought the same parade of people
pressing and probing dad.
Occasional visits from the resident physician
yielded timeless comments like,
“we just want him to be comfortable,”
and my personal favorite,
“have you been here all night?”
Stupid question.
After all the “outpourings” of concern
from friends and relatives
(who I haven’t seen nor heard
from since the dirt was shoveled over his casket),
their visits can only be topped
by the Sunday-after-church-crowd,
who desired only to brand dad
with their version of beliefs -
God bless them.
As they were leaving,
I could most certainly detect the pride
they felt in themselves
for their courageous visit to the dying.
And then came death.
And here I am at 4 a.m.
in the morning two years later,
listening to a two-bit movie drone on the TV,  
wondering if dad listened to the
Sunday-after-church-crowd.

© 2010 C.T. Bailey