Being
at my father's bedside the last three days before he passed in September 2010
had a huge emotional, mental, spiritual and creative impact on me. I got to
witness the mental peace of his transition from this life to the next, as well
as his body's physical struggle to remain here with us. I have some of the most
vivid sensory memories of my life burned into my being from these days, which
have resulted in the birth of very personal poetry and stories... many have yet
to be released from within me.
My dad loved football. He played it,
he coached it and when he was no longer able to do either of those, he Refereed
it. As a little girl, I was enamoured with my father and his role as a Ref. Because
I did not get to see him very often due to my parent's divorce, a lot of things
about my father held deep mystery and awe for me. His home was somewhat of a
magical place for me, as he had rooms that had names for the color of it's shag
carpet. The poem below, is born from that mystery and of his life and some of his precious spoken memories during the final days
on this earth.
The Red Room
The room.
Named after its carpet.
Like the yarn-strands
of Raggedy-Ann’s hair.
Red.
The closet.
Where he hung his
pride and joy.
Black and white like a
Zebra left in waiting.
Ready to pounce.
Bedside-deathside.
Memories of his youth.
And of his uniform.
Hanging…
In the Red Room.
by
~Carole A. Smith
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