DAD’s PASSING
They were coming in
from the road
out of the cold black.
In from the noise
of cars shooting past
on rain swept tarmac,
throwing up echoes
of smooth ice scrapings.
They came into the small front terraced room,
looked at the shocked ghosts
waking up,
in a new Jerusalem.
The body resting to the left along the wall,
a coffin beside the good cups
and plates with summer rose gardens.
Their glances darted over
in search of faces they knew
to land their eyes upon -
the terrible shock and disbelief.
Pushing down to the back of the house,
where the tea churn boiled continuously
and the breath of the quiet prayers
laid over the layers of sandwiches and cake,
that would later fuel thoughts
and the bellies of past memories
sending them home
well on into the night.
My mother appeared slowly and unevenly
in the front of the house
and then to the back -
between both places
making an infrequent burst of laughter
heating a damp corner of the world
for a moment. I sat, held bowls
of steaming green soup,
moving on to another place,
taking cups and trays of tea with me
under arms and settling down
on mahogany toffee coloured tables.
The frill of the white surround, crisp
holding in a comfortable presence of my father.
Close to the silken satin of the whiteness
and the good deaf ear.
The wooden rosary beads folded in curling movements
among his fingers that once strummed electric guitars,
the hard skin now sunken among the marble marks,
the heads and the coats of mixed browns and greys,
hugs and kisses on flushed cheeks.
People standing at odd angles around each other,
hovering at the open door,
backs up against the wall and the part of the wallpaper
that had, in time, faded.
Waiting by partners, smiling; with nods in the right places.
And the single chime of my grandmother’s old mantle clock
moved for the first time in over 30 years,
making us speak of times past.
© Brenda Woods January 2014
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