Flash Cards

Boarding the plane,
mom's words, flash cards,
blinking, non-stop before me.
It's spread to his brain
They give him one month.
Sensibilities jump to defenses,
refusing comprehension,
when pain exceeds acceptance.

I find my seat, on this Friday the 13th
spitting in the face of superstition,
I hoped he'd prove them wrong.

Bald, hollow-eyed,
white skin over bones.
Hi Dolly, I'm glad you're here. I
didn't hear you come in.
Voice, at least, unchanged.

Dropping to my knees beside him,
embracing for a long, long time,
the way only dads and daughters do
fifty-year-old "daddy's girl" cries.

Speaking of pride in each other,
rehashing the fun that we had,
fishing, camping, dancing, laughing,
we began reminiscing:

The three of us at the Harlequin
Lounge in Edinburgh, wasn't that it?
Where we did the Peppermint Twist?
The proprietor said, "You'll have to leave."
"I'll no have deerty dancing like this."

Blushing, giggling as we left,
making our way through ancient streets,
expecting a knight to appear.
Finding that quaint little fish 'n chips place
where "to go" meant "wrapped in newspaper."

Sitting cross-legged, on our motel room bed,
the three of us were tee-heeing,
munching away, eating with our fingers,
feeling the warm, dark ale numb my brain.
Enjoying malt vinegar on fries and fish
when we were used to ketchup.
I was only sixteen then
but it seems like yesterday.

Peeking into their bedroom now,
sad, it's so easy to do, with door removed,
accommodating his new mode of transportation.

Snoozing, snoring, spooning, so close
they looked like one, as they had
for fifty-eight years.
I smiled, and cried, and retired,
exhausted.

The hospice nurse comes daily now,
checking his vital signs.
You're holding well today, Mr. Reid.
Dad, turns and says to my mother,
Does that mean that I get to hold you
one more night?

Mom says, yes, then sits 'cross his lap,
where she spends most of her time now.
My throat closes up
I escape to my room
to soundproof pillow and rage.

Weeks have passed like a deck of cards,
spread out, they seem like a lot.
Stacked, deceiving.
No luck of this draw, I fear.
"Mama, good, I, looks, SHIT!"
(sob) (sob) (sob)
Sharp mind dulled by disease
and he knows it.
Lashless lids can't hold back tears.
I help to wipe them away.
My own, dripping onto my lap.

Drying supper dishes that night,
Mom wheels him by me and says,
Kiss the cook. I stoop
to receive the buss then I hear,
This is hell. It's taking too long.
It seems he's thinking better!

We strain, but we manage to lift him,
from wheelchair to recliner.
Then a whip of his head,
and a reach out for me
as his body contorts and seizes.

Dolly, do something!
He needs oxygen!
I'll never forget her face.
(Those fucking flash cards again.)
She reaches for the gauge and the tubing.
No, Mom. Just tell him you love him.

Words of love spewed from us
as we flanked him on either side.
Each holding one of his hands,
the hands we loved so much,
for so many different reasons,
we had to kiss them.

Death rattled, his last breath,
which sucked the air from us.
He's gone, I said as I held on
to her, for HIS dear life.

A month was all they gave him.
Gone on March 14th,
he'd lived a month and one more day.
I knew he'd prove them wrong.