Forgotten
Is it simply forgotten
or not remembered?
My father coughs
through his days,
asking for answers
only his brother knows.
Some books are better
read from the end,
he says. I don’t know
what to do.
He tries to spell his name
but the letters elude him,
teetering between symbol
and thought and choice.
The chair tips over
when I lean too far back,
replacing memories
with hardwood
and a new bruise
coloring my thoughts.
This word, that one.
A face, the date.
Last Tuesday’s crumb.
The floor accepts us all.
* * *
“Forgotten” first appeared in ISACOUSTIC* in January 2018.
O at the Edges 
The longing in these lines alone touched me deeply.
“My father coughs
through his days,
asking for answers
only his brother knows.”
Peace, Robert. You write of your father with a gifted pen. You honor him brilliantly.
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Thank you, Tre. I wrote this several years ago, after he mistook me for one of his brothers. A difficult transition…
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You’re most welcome. I understand the mistaken identity. My Great-Grandmother, when she was ailing and failing, she often thought I was my older cousin. It used to hit me pretty hard.
This is an exceptional read.
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The first few times were the hardest. In the end, I was happy to be mistaken for one of my favorite uncles, as Dad adored him.
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I agree. trE said it perfectly. Lovely, touching poem, Robert.
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I’m so pleased you both feel that way. Thank you.
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Great poem!
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Thanks very much!
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Tender and lovely. I especially like the closing line, “The floor accepts us all.”
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Thank you, Joan. The floor does not discriminate.
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So touching
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Thanks very much, Beth.
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Fine expression of that special kind of pain that comes only from watching a parent slip into dementia. I’ve been there, and yes, “The floor accepts us all.” Like the rest of this fine poem, this line resonates with me in a way I can’t explain.
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Thanks, Alan. I think we all share that floor at one time or another.
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Yes, that’s it!
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This:
“and a new bruise
coloring my thoughts.”
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New bruises, new colors…
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“A new bruise coloring my thoughts” love it! And that chair, now there’s a writing seat.
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It was my dad’s chair, of course, but I’ve had it for many years now. We creak together these days…
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I like the collection of moments strung together in this one. A patchwork that creates an overall image.
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My life resembles a patchwork – a little of this, something of that, and not necessarily logical. 🙂
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Your words have a way of pulling on my heartstrings, always gently playing a tune for me, and your finale strummed my cello’s high notes.
“This word, that one.
A face, the date.
Last Tuesday’s crumb.
The floor accepts us all.”
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Ah, thank you, Ivor. So kind, as always.
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Some endings seem to be more difficult than others. Very nicely done. You’re right the floor accepts it all!!
Dwight
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There’s much truth in your words, Dwight! Some endings… Thank you.
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After I wrote it down I thought Hmmm? Might be a prompt for a new poem!! What do you think!?
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Yes! Go for it.
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You too!
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I did, check it out on: https://rothpoetry.wordpress.com/2018/07/08/some-endings/
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Excellent, Dwight!
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Thanks Robert, I appreciate your affirmation. Now it’s your turn to put it all into perspective!
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That may take a while. 🙂
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Take your time. You tend to go much deeper into it than I do.
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I’m mostly slow…
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Ha Ha! must be A-G-E !!
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😀
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Your work is so beautiful, and you write with such grace and care, I always love reading your poetry. “The floor accepts us all.” The way you write about that finality is actually really beautiful to me, because it speaks of almost an embrace, a home-going to a loving and fully accepting mother. I love it being written this way.
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You are very kind. Thank you. I’m so pleased it resonated for you.
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You are a master. So moving and beautifully observed and some how humourous too. I’m not sure if it is worse for the person at this stage or to be the loved one who can’t change things, but no doubt you helped by being there and treating him with the dignity you have shown with these words.
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Thank you, Mek. You are always so generous. Dad retreated to the past quite often, but never fully stayed there. So up until his last weeks, we were able to hold conversations in the present. But it was disconcerting, especially the first few times, when he addressed me by his brother’s name.
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You’re welcome Bob. Only returning the generosity you show by sharing such gems. That must have been hard for you but I’m glad you also had lucid moment till the end. Sorry for your loss. Personal question – did you read your poetry to him?
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No, I never read it to him. He was a reader, but wasn’t much of a poetry fan, though he was very proud of me.
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Aww, that’s lovely 😊
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We were opposites in almost everything, but he always supported my impractical meanderings.
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Very moved by this. Thankyou Robert 💟
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Thank you, Diana. Much appreciated.
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A moment of synchronicity for me – this replicates the conversation I had yesterday with a relative struggling post-stroke
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Oh, Derrick. Those conversations can be disturbing, but are often oddly pleasant despite the discomfort.
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Great piece – expressive and filled such painful imagery depicting an individuals mental decay. Really enjoyed reading. Have a great day.
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Thank you, Goff. The pleasant memories far outweigh the less pleasant.
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Very true
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i love your last line. golly! good.
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Thanks very much!
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Very poignant. An empathy that reminds us that “the floor accepts us all.” I like it!
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Thank you. We can’t escape the floor!
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“The floor accepts us all.” Wow. The student of Elizabethan drama in me can appreciate the double meaning here: ultimately, as we all are mortal, the Earth receives us back too. But along with this hard reminder (as hard as an unyielding wood floor) and also Elizabethan is the zest to live passionately and fully within the space we have, armed with the foreknowledge of our separate ends.
Good poem. 🙂
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Thank you. The floor has certainly accepted me on occasion, but not permanently. 🙂
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Oh, this is sad and well written. Thank you!
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Thanks for reading and commenting, Susi.
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Mon Plaisir!
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