How My Father Made it Easier for Me to Fly Back to California
It was the last time I saw my father,
and I mean that as the last time
I saw him as him,
not someone changed
by the thick trucks of morphine coursing,
chugging through his body on a roadmap of veins,
rural capillaries,
the massive city of his heart.
He was standing at the window of his hospital room
wearing the short, papery dress of his hospital gown,
waving goofily.
Then he cinched the gown tighter at his thin waist
to accentuate the perfect shape of his basketball gut.
He put a pinky to the corner of his mouth and pursed
his lips, sleepy eyelids, one raised eyebrow,
mouthing, “Happy Birthday, Mister President” through the glass.
He blew me a kiss with a flourish of his thick hand,
then quickly turned to moon me through the slit of his gown.
We both laughed, him silently, framed by the window,
me walking into the thick humidity of a late New York summer,
as if everything was going to be alright.
Thanks for that :..(
Honestly though, its bittersweet and speaks volumes of your relationship with him.
He was pretty funny and would have really dug the conversations you and I get into when we’re riffing. Haha
Awwww eyes are leaking again! I can see the entire scene and I was not there. As usual brother your power with words leaves me amazed and crying. Well done brat!
Thanks, sis… I think I just thanked you for calling me a brat…