Memories of my Father
Yesterday was the 7th anniversary of my father's death. Hard to believe he could be gone so long. And life goes on. As it will when I die, too, I realize. I miss...the good days, when he was strong and lucid...not the end days when he was ditzy and difficult to manage, like a 5 year old with keys to the car. We lived in fear that he'd kill someone. Do you know how hard it is to get someone's license taken away in this state if they are adults and have no DUI's or other deal killing offense? Impossible. I talked to the BMV, the police. No one would help. Eventually, he just got too sick to drive and we got lucky...he did not hurt anyone when he was in LaLa land, driving west to go east and vice versa.
Well here are two poems that are about him in his last days. Hope you like them.
Type your cut contents here.
The Ticket
You see it’s like this,
we should not have
parked there, in the spot
with the royal blue sign,
wheelchair beckoning
my weary father,
eighty three. We were only
going to lunch, when he barked
he’d forgotten his gimpy sign
that hangs from the rear view mirror
like those domino dice
on hotrods with younger drivers
or the rosary, protecting Theresa
as she tools round town.
Patience scarcer than hen’s teeth,
fireworks rang out when we found
the ticket on the windshield.
Two hundred and fifty dollars.
A king’s ransom.
One to fight.
In traffic court.
Room three fourteen
of the county courthouse.
Seven p.m. Monday next.
A calico cloth of humanity,
no distinction between
rich or poor, educated, not;
right or wrong side of the tracks.
All equal before the law.
The magistrate’s weary gaze testified
she’d seen and heard it all and more:
the scofflaw, nabbed, spewing excuses.
The frightened seventeen year old,
lead foot stamped on 4 tickets, one too
many to keep his license, mom by his side.
Papa stepped up to the rickety podium,
tweed jacket, felted English vest,
bow tie and carefully trimmed mustache,
still dapper and dignified, his few white
hairs neatly in place, Italian leather shoes shined.
The hard eyes softened as he spoke.
Confidently, we handed her the placard.
“Sir, this expired on your birthday in August.”
Defeated, I prepared to pay our due, when
Her Honor spoke: “No, don’t. Renew the sign,
I’ll call the officer involved. Come back on the 24th.
On the 24th, Papa had quadruple bypass surgery.
He never recovered. At seven that night
a different magistrate, not so kind,
hard-pressed to buy my story.
She let it go, but not with out a scolding.
And me wishing Papa were still here
for more lunches, to get more tickets.
Well, maybe one poem is enough per post.....
Well here are two poems that are about him in his last days. Hope you like them.
Type your cut contents here.
The Ticket
You see it’s like this,
we should not have
parked there, in the spot
with the royal blue sign,
wheelchair beckoning
my weary father,
eighty three. We were only
going to lunch, when he barked
he’d forgotten his gimpy sign
that hangs from the rear view mirror
like those domino dice
on hotrods with younger drivers
or the rosary, protecting Theresa
as she tools round town.
Patience scarcer than hen’s teeth,
fireworks rang out when we found
the ticket on the windshield.
Two hundred and fifty dollars.
A king’s ransom.
One to fight.
In traffic court.
Room three fourteen
of the county courthouse.
Seven p.m. Monday next.
A calico cloth of humanity,
no distinction between
rich or poor, educated, not;
right or wrong side of the tracks.
All equal before the law.
The magistrate’s weary gaze testified
she’d seen and heard it all and more:
the scofflaw, nabbed, spewing excuses.
The frightened seventeen year old,
lead foot stamped on 4 tickets, one too
many to keep his license, mom by his side.
Papa stepped up to the rickety podium,
tweed jacket, felted English vest,
bow tie and carefully trimmed mustache,
still dapper and dignified, his few white
hairs neatly in place, Italian leather shoes shined.
The hard eyes softened as he spoke.
Confidently, we handed her the placard.
“Sir, this expired on your birthday in August.”
Defeated, I prepared to pay our due, when
Her Honor spoke: “No, don’t. Renew the sign,
I’ll call the officer involved. Come back on the 24th.
On the 24th, Papa had quadruple bypass surgery.
He never recovered. At seven that night
a different magistrate, not so kind,
hard-pressed to buy my story.
She let it go, but not with out a scolding.
And me wishing Papa were still here
for more lunches, to get more tickets.
Well, maybe one poem is enough per post.....