The Poetry of Loss

Even lying there in a hospital bed, wheezing breath rattling from his sunken chest, he fills me with stomach-churning fear. His eyes that used to blaze at me in anger, now somewhat milky, their gaze still sends cold hands of inadequacy to crush the air from my lungs. I know it’s not like this for all sons; I know he isn’t like all fathers. Every time I failed to master what he considered an essential ‘man’ skill, his eyes would close and his hands would ball into fists and shake with rage. Now he reaches for the plastic cup of water at his bedside and those same strong hard hands, now like discarded bones wrapped in crêpe paper, shake and his eyes squeeze shut for a different reason. I sense a fraction of a moment of glee or enjoyment in myself, and repulsed, I force it back down deep. I need to be here for him - my mother would have wanted me to be here for him. I wish she was here. There it is, a hitch in my breath, genuine sadness; my long-suffering, long-dead mother. She was always the mediator, the interface between my father and I.

The last time I was in a hospital with him we had been camping. An accident with a knife had, after much screaming in anger from him and pain and fear from me, landed us at the nearest Accident and Emergency. I lay on a gurney as a softly spoken nurse explained to my father how to care for the five stitches I’d just received. She praised my bravery during the minor operation and for a second the pervasive blanket of fear I’d been under since the accident subsided a little. I don’t remember what my father said to her but I remember the look on her face as she retreated from the room. I know it was the same look I had every time his belligerent bullying left me cringing in fear.

My mind retreating from the painful memory, I scrabble to instigate some kind of meaningful communication between us. “Dad, a piece of my poetry. It’s - well. It’s been put forward for an award. In the US. I could read it to you?” Why did I say that - to him of all people? Flustered, I pull out my battered red notepad, my poetry journal. I hold it in front of me, between us, like a talisman - something to join us together? Or something to deepen the separation between us? Looking up at me brandishing this flag of my betrayal, of him, of his ways, he turns away and closes his eyes.

“I’m tired. Leave me be.”

Pacing in my cramped, cold flat, sipping rosé from a half-pint glass, stolen from a pub in the hazy past, I wonder how right my father was about my choices, my career. He always seemed to take cruel pleasure in seeing his predictions for my life and finances coming true. The twenty thousand dollar poetry award would really come in handy. It would keep more than just my finances afloat. I imagine rubbing his nose in my win and again cringe at the surfacing of character traits of his I loathe to see in myself. My win! Who am I kidding. With a heavy heart I pour another glass of wine and turn on my laptop to begin the job hunt. As he would so spitefully remind me, “Who needs a poet?”

When my unsteady hand finds the wine bottle empty it curls into a shaking fist and I slam it down on the cheap desk. The bottle jumps like a startled child and falls on its side, the glass rolls onto the floor, shattering. How does he do this to me every time? With only five words he undermines everything I’m trying to do, to be. He’s probably right about poetry, about me. I screw my eyes shut and scream inside, furious and embarrassed to realise what a fool I’ve been. He was right. All this time; he was right.

Swaying slightly, dazed by the cold night air, I squeeze the can of lighter fluid, shooting the noxious-smelling liquid onto my red poetry journal lying in the barbecue. It feels good to crush the thin metal of the can, imagining it is some kind of violence my father would respect. When no more liquid comes out I throw the can violently into the barbecue, almost knocking it off its spindly legs. With shaking hands, like my sick father lighting a votive candle, I strike a match and burn my offering.

The muted light of morning casts dust-filled rays onto my rumpled sheets and sweat-sheened body. I make it as far as the bathroom door before the memory of last night, and the bottle of cheap wine, cramp my stomach, dropping me to my knees. Later, standing in the garden still tasting bile and sickly sweet vomit, I know that it wasn’t a nightmare. The ashes of my poetry journal lie floating in the rain filled barbecue, and I hang my head in shame and anger. What a meaningless gesture. How has this shown my father I am different, better than him? I shuffle into the house with the rest of the day, the rest of my life looming darkly over me; a Sisyphean boulder.

The laptop in front of me hums a dirge to my failure, the cursor blinks at me tauntingly from the blank page. I switch to the web browser and one of the infinite number of forgettable job search engines. Back to the blank page. The job search. The blank page. A skull-piercing chime alerts me to a newly arrived email - distraction. Finally.

No. I don’t believe it. I won. The twenty thousand. My poem. I won. Before I’ve even processed what has happened I’m running around the flat searching for my shoes and pulling on a jacket. My body knows where I’m going, what I need to do. As I slam the front door and clatter down the steps, heading out to the hospital, my mind still doesn't know if I’m going to celebrate with my father or deal the coup de grâce in our lifelong feud.

“Hi I’m here to see-” The nurse at the duty station cuts me short by turning away to consult a computer screen. As she slowly turns back towards me I know what she is going to say. I nearly vomit there and then, this time unrelated to last night’s rosé.

“I’m so sorry. Your father passed away in his sleep early this morning. I was due to call you shortly. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.” I could see in her eyes the apprehension, the expectation of a potential ‘scene’. Was she this afraid every time she had to break bad news to family members or was this specific to me, or more precisely, my father? Maybe I’m doing him a disservice. I realise that my eyes are dry, I stand there with my mouth open, in shock and I realise, hating myself, relief.

Sitting on a bench outside the Accident and Emergency after the formalities have been completed, I clutch a small tattered box containing the few meagre possessions my father had brought with him to the hospital. Aimlessly pushing around the assorted own-brand toiletries, I uncover a tattered little black book, almost a dark duplicate of my red poetry journal. I lift it out and, putting the box aside, I leaf through the pages. They are filled with my father’s looping, calligraphic writing, a hand I’d always considered so contrary to his character. Although the book is only half full, the dates go back almost twenty years and the pen has obviously been changed multiple times. I choose a section at random and read with my heart in my throat. I read another. And another. My father’s observations, his musings, on everything and anything. Moments in time captured perfectly in beautiful, heartfelt prose. Then my tears come. Not for what we'd shared, but for what we hadn't. I pick up his pen, turn to the first blank page and began to write.