“We were talking a while ago” , her eyes searched my face.
“About papa”, I said. She had asked me where he was. I said he wasn’t here just now.
“Yes”, she nodded. and smiled, her chain of thought had reconnected.
“I loved him so much” , she said. “He was always in my corner. He would fight for me”.
Those words had never crossed her lips before. At least, never in my presence.
“I’ve never heard you say that before”, I said. “You’ve only always talked about what a pain in the ass he was” I said, as those words left me, it felt like a reflex action.
“You both were a pain in the ass to each other”, I quickly interjected. as a correction. I am shocked to hear there was love there.
“He did tell me that he loved you” , she seemed as surprised to hear it, just as I was way back when he said it.
In all the years I’ve been on this earth, all I’ve ever seen between these two was fighting. At times, it felt like they were fighting to the death. In my young mind I wondered what would happen to me and my sisters and brother if one of them killed the other.
Now here she sits, in a confused state laced with moments of clarity, professing her love for my father who no longer among the living. I didn’t have the heart to tell her this earlier, today of all days. It was Fathers Day. And she was treading the waters of unfinished business.
adrift to the days of old
a sense of well being –
recess bell spawns youthful dash –
dusty school yard – smell of rain
For Colleen’s Weekly Tanka Tuesday where the prompt words are synonyms of “slow & work”.
I used “lollygagging & spawn”.
Lollygagging…what’s not to love about that word. I can hear my Primary School teacher’s voice (Mrs Beckford), “stop lollygagging and get in with it!”
Drop in at the link below and do some reading, maybe even join in😊
Mother Bea sits in her wooden rocking chair on the rickety varandah. She is placed there every morning. She does not walk. She must be over 80 years old. Even her kids were old. When you are little, everybody is old! I watch her as she watches the daily interactions of the children in the yard. She would make one word prouncements on the goings-on.
Cry baby. Smart. Determined. Thick skull. I often wondered how she arrived at these critiques from such a distance. And more often, just who she was talking about!
at times it’s futile
figuring out which spirit
whisper the loudest
in their attempts to guide me –
probably pointless, thick skull!
For Colleen’s Weekly Tanka Tuesday
Where the prompt is synonyms for :
Ghost & Hollow
Over at Cape Diem Haiku we’re being introduced to the Sijo. A Korean form of poetry “…more ancient than haiku, the Korean Sijo shares a common ancestry with haiku, tanka and similar Japanese genres. All evolved from more ancient Chinese patterns.
Sijo is traditionally composed in three lines of 14-16 syllables each, totaling between 44-46 syllables. A pause breaks each line approximately in the middle; it resembles a caesura but is not based on metrics.
Oh that I might capture the essence of this deep midwinter night (16)
And fold it softly into the waft of a spring-moon quilt (14)
Then fondly uncoil it the night my beloved returns. (14)