It's 10 years since my father died. Today I found a poem I'd written to help me cope with his decline resulting from vascular dementia. I share it here:
Pathos. Pathetic. Sad.
My dad. Sitting
in his dirty blue jacket.
An unlucky penny goes into his pockets
Goes down - all the way
And back up again.
Know anyone who can sew pockets?
Sitting in his cap. In his recliner. Waiting.
Whatcha waitin’ for Dad?
Ride to the Center.
Yuh. They started coming on Saturdays.
Starting when Dad?
They didn’t come for you last Saturday, Dad.
The guilt is wrenching.
Tearing at my wings
My broken wings.
I can’t fly
Can only sit and cry.
I am grateful to be able to use the arts ~ poetry, dance, visual art, song ~ to help me process and feel feelings I would otherwise bury. Expressing through the arts helps me be more human and more humane.