(no subject)
I went to a poetry reading last night.
He was friendly and animated and everything you'd be ready for.
My poetry teacher bought me one of his books.
Within was written a poem that caught my breath.
I talk to him one on one.
Eye to eye.
He was young with his father dieing in bed.
He was the only one there when his father died.
Only one in that lonely, sterile, hospital room.
Holding his father's hand.
I talk to him one on one.
Eye to eye.
I held my father's hand as he took his last breath.
Instead of the movements he recalls,
I have my own mind imprints, stone carved images. Lasting impressions.
He gives me his other book for free.
He signs it.
I thank him and leave.
I returned to my room last night to look what he had written.
The first was simple and similar to any reading you find.
In the book he personally gave to me his woods froze me in place.
For Ella,
Who needs her father.
And tears fell for the first time in months.
And my heart stops every time I reread his words sketched into the first page.
Who needs her father.
Who
needs
her
father.
Where is he? And why can't I have him?
The Anniversary of My Father's Death
by Fran Quinn
Twenty-seven years ago, I sat by his bed
and held his hand as the nurse said, "He'll be gone.
Soon. Maybe five minutes or more." I was there
to encourage him to take the door that slowly
opened in the dim lit room, not to turn back
and feel our pain at his going, but to act for once
on his own behalf, escape his pain that
wracked us all. I whispered to him, "It's ok. We'll be
all right. You've taught us everything you can. Now
the rest we have to find out on our own." For once he
took my advice. As the nurse shut off the machines
and left, it took minutes for the room
to bring me back to it, as if I too had crossed over
the threshold and walked a little way with him before
I could not follow any longer.
I sat awhile in the quiet room to make it clear:
I was truly on my own. And yet that silence...
It had a shape and in that shape
a familiar confirmation of my life.
Quinn is fascinated with silence. I find death brings us to love silence, and experience the degrees and demensions of it.
He was friendly and animated and everything you'd be ready for.
My poetry teacher bought me one of his books.
Within was written a poem that caught my breath.
I talk to him one on one.
Eye to eye.
He was young with his father dieing in bed.
He was the only one there when his father died.
Only one in that lonely, sterile, hospital room.
Holding his father's hand.
I talk to him one on one.
Eye to eye.
I held my father's hand as he took his last breath.
Instead of the movements he recalls,
I have my own mind imprints, stone carved images. Lasting impressions.
He gives me his other book for free.
He signs it.
I thank him and leave.
I returned to my room last night to look what he had written.
The first was simple and similar to any reading you find.
In the book he personally gave to me his woods froze me in place.
For Ella,
Who needs her father.
And tears fell for the first time in months.
And my heart stops every time I reread his words sketched into the first page.
Who needs her father.
Who
needs
her
father.
Where is he? And why can't I have him?
The Anniversary of My Father's Death
by Fran Quinn
Twenty-seven years ago, I sat by his bed
and held his hand as the nurse said, "He'll be gone.
Soon. Maybe five minutes or more." I was there
to encourage him to take the door that slowly
opened in the dim lit room, not to turn back
and feel our pain at his going, but to act for once
on his own behalf, escape his pain that
wracked us all. I whispered to him, "It's ok. We'll be
all right. You've taught us everything you can. Now
the rest we have to find out on our own." For once he
took my advice. As the nurse shut off the machines
and left, it took minutes for the room
to bring me back to it, as if I too had crossed over
the threshold and walked a little way with him before
I could not follow any longer.
I sat awhile in the quiet room to make it clear:
I was truly on my own. And yet that silence...
It had a shape and in that shape
a familiar confirmation of my life.
Quinn is fascinated with silence. I find death brings us to love silence, and experience the degrees and demensions of it.