And So It Begins

This past week marked the anniversary of my father's death. Somehow it's easier and more satisfying to keep track of his birthdays, but both dates rekindle memories of one of my personal heroes.

Dad was a gentleman in every sense of the word, a man of integrity, and always very patient even through the difficult year at the end of his life. I miss him a lot.



And So It Begins


My father fell from his bed one night
or rather his legs buckled when he stood
intent on reaching the loo. Jarred awake,
my mother tried in vain to lift
his once solid frame now collapsed
like pick-up-sticks in a hotel room.
Unnerved, she called the front desk,
his left side limp as a floppy sail.
A CT scan leaked a secret they shared:
a series of minor strokes, traceable tremors,
preceding the earthquake.

My father fell from his bed one night
or rather his legs buckled when he stood
to find his way to the nearby commode.
In the urgency of a bladder taut
as a water balloon he forgot he couldn't walk.
The clamor caught the notice of the nurse
who neglected to secure his bed rails.
X-rays spoke of a broken hip, months of rehab.

My father fell from his bed one night
or rather his legs buckled when he stood,
attempting a routine bathroom run at home,
walker at the ready. Startled from sleep,
still powerless to shift her spouse's body
crumpled once more on the floor, my mother
reached for the phone, her own hand shaking.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor