My father’s last day

was nothing

like all the days

that came before it.

The ones where

he held my hand,

scolded me,

patiently helped me

through my math homework,

disappeared into the cellar

to whistle while he

built a shelf and

escaped from his life

or had a story to tell.

My father’s last day

was nothing

like all the bad dreams

I had had

as a child,

in which he died suddenly,

or once went willingly

and I could not stop him.

My father’s last day

was one of

confusion…

for him,

for me.

Where were his thoughts

as he lay dying?

Did he see my face as

my own or his mother’s?

Was he remembering

his childhood friends and their pranks?

My thoughts

were remembering

memories I didn’t

know or

remember

I had…

the way he whistled

when he walked,

his laugh,

how once he blew breath at me

in the cold winter air before work

as I watched him leave the house.

My father’s last day

was nothing

like all the days

that came before it.

 

Eve Remillard

8/13/2013