Calm and quiet have been the relative norm for several weeks. Nat’s still standing, sitting, walking, pacing, etc. but has finally had his MRI. The results were pretty much what he had expected – severe advanced damage to his sciatica and discs over the past ten years when this whole thing began. An appointment with a neurosurgeon is in the works to research whatever else may be done to diminish the pain and let him get back to a relatively pain free existence. Otherwise, more time, more waiting, more wondering, more assumptions.
We’re both trying hard to get through our daily routines and Nat has done extremely well despite it all. He still cuts the grass, trims around the ditch, washes “Ruby” (our car), helps me shift things if needed, manage the BBQ and even vacuum our rugs. He admits to feeling better whenever he’s standing and keeping busy – this keeps him preoccupied and takes his mind off the pain.
As for me, well, despite what happened in early May, I’ve been reassured that I was not totally wrong by my loving husband. He can read my silence now. However, as helpful as hubby is being, of late I’ve been lapsing back to memories of my parents. Some of this may be brought on by a step-daughter who reminisces on Facebook every year on the anniversary of her Mother’s death or Mother’s Day. For unexplained reasons these solaces by her make me feel unwanted and unloved in this family, so naturally I begin to fantasize on escaping or craving advice from either one of my parents, who both passed away in 1981. We all know your mind can play tricks on you and reek havoc with your emotions. You begin to think of every scenario you can to ease your soul and suddenly the tears begin to flow uncontrollably. God damned, it gets worse as you, yourself, get older!
In order to keep me relatively sane (yes, that’s a point that can be argued!) I began to compose a poem or a tribute to our Dad. (I say “our” as I believe all of my siblings will feel the same way.) I’ve been testing my hand at poetry for a long time now, and have gathered a small collection of little diddies. I feel uplifted whenever trying to compose something no matter the theme. Writing or poetry is truly a mind exercise that can keep you occupied for hours.
Anyway, here’s my effort – so despite criticism or praise – this little ode is mine and it makes me feel good. That’s all I need.
Memories of Our Dad
Your love for life was so infectious with a friendly nature known by everyone in town;
You were a farm manager, lineman, volunteer fireman, joined the Lodge and joined the Church.
You taught your daughters and son to be true to themselves, with patience and never falter;
Through good times and bad, the highs and the lows, keep your chin up ‘cause it will get better.
Each child was aware of a devoted passion and true love for your wife, their mother.
Your eyes lit up when she walked into a room with that great big smile and laughter.
There was no “head” of the table, but each knew at every meal you’d reach for her hand;
It was understood by us, your seat was beside her, for she was your lover and you her man.
Your love letters were found, in a closest high above reach, scattered and strewn
The Isle of Eleuthera was your job for awhile, then three flew home leaving you behind
Each line of your letters were typed with love, Mom’s flowing script would slide from her pen
Your newest born crying, your first born was growing; I’ll be home soon what should I send?
Six girls and a boy with their giggling, mischief, mayhem, scrapes, tears or fights
Each one had a personality all their own, but no matter what, each Sunday we’d be all go
Off to grandma’s house for supper depending how many you could fit in the old black Ford
As some grew older they’d be exempt, while the youngest ate roast beef and praised the Lord.
The picnics, Sunday drives, splashing in pot holes after a rain, with an old tin tub as our pool
The money was sparse, and we never knew how long it would take to buy something new
Grandma made our dresses for Church Easter Sunday, the bonnets and shoes were new
Mom stayed home (religion not her forte) baked stuffed chicken breasts, pork chops or stew
Encouragement to read, to constantly learn, to open new doors and see what’s behind
Was your way of telling us the world could be ours’ if we went exploring and tested our minds
With time and support we all went our ways, some of us travelled and some of us stayed
Some had babies you or Mom would ever get to hug, hold, pass on wisdom, or lead astray
Your youngest has teenagers, your eldest are seniors, your son is, I swear to God, he’s your twin
Health issues have struck each and every one of us, so we’ve been through pretty much all
Life can throw at us, but memories of our fading past will always remain of our Mom and Dad
With every step and road we’ve taken let it be known you were and always will be our Galahad.
Filed under: Family News, Humour Tagged: composing poetry, creating poetry for yourself, deceased parents being missed, escaping in poetry, Facebook posting, Father's Day, feelings of being left out, keeping busy with pain, keeping pre-occupied while in pain, loving your father, making you feel good, missing your father, missing your mom, ode to my father, poem to my father, sciatica getting worse, seeing a neurosurgeon, severe aches from sciatica, trying to write a poem, working through sciatic pain
