At The Deathbed

[peter6]

Of course, I was the last to arrive at his bedside;
I feared him the most.
It made no difference that he was dying.
Dying would only make him more unpredictable.
“Christ, you are ugly” he might say.
or “I never liked you, anyway.”
That’s what I was thinking when I leaned over
to greet him.

“Dad, it’s me.” I whispered dutifully,
hoping he wouldn’t wake;
but he did, his face brightening,
thinking his oldest son
was there to save him,
to take him home.

He reached for my hand,
gripped it fiercely,
and threw one leg over the side of the bed.
I pretended to help him;
but I wanted him to stay there
and die without a fuss,
the way it’s done on TV.

His body slumped into the white sheets,
his eyes large with questions
and the realization
there was to be no escape.

He’d talked about his dying to me on the phone.
“It’s okay” he said, “I’m ready”
I was hoping he meant it;
but I could see he was terrified;
the thin thread of life slipping
from his hands.

As usual, I made this all about me,
and stood over him in shame;
I wanted to say something helpful;
but my tongue,
my tongue,
was ash.