Earlier this year Jacob and I tried to write a poem a week (or was it a day?) for Lent. I found myself returning, over and over again, to my father's stroke. One that I wrote (which I haven't included here) was based on the one of his early prayers, when he was struggling to find words but which resulted in prayers that were, often, just right.
Here are a smattering, of what I think will be a larger project of processing the strange grief of someone who Is there-but-not-there, himself-but-not-himself:
If a Tree Falls in the Forest, and There's No One Around to Hear It, Does It Make a Sound?
That night you didn't snore so loudly
and later they found a blister pack for panadol
in the rubbish bin
that masked the throbbing in your head.
In another room your wife was sleeping.
Your son was out.
I was on the other side
of the world, frying courgettes for a dinner party.
How can it be
that a blood vessel bursting
does not make a sound?
I play it over and over again in my head
the moment you fell
in a noiseless world.
Grace before a meal
Father, thank you for this provision
and may you always be
a source of investment for good food
Amen
The butterfly
It was purple
the butterfly on a green leaf
The woman on my left took out her phone
and flicked her finger across the screen
conjuring a camera
and all the time I was afraid
to enjoy the miracle before me
because I knew that when you don't expect it
a butterfly can fly away.
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