Vigil For My Father, John J. Brick Poem by Daniel Brick
Vigil For My Father, John J. Brick
Ghosts demand
as much of your time
as we, your progeny, do.
We crowd around the bed
but they crowd even closer.
They follow you
into sleep
through your trembling eyelids,
lodge themselves in your mind
like sparrows nested in a high elm.
Your hands float
above the sheets and straps,
tracing patterns in the air,
hesitant, delicate patterns
as if you were shaping a haircut
or molding soft clay into an image
of something old and dear.
When you cough and wake yourself,
you drag out fragments of your dream
and hurl them at us,
so confident these ghost events
are the real life you are living.
It is already evening.
The drapes are pulled shut
against the cold light of November stars.
The room shines
in the glare of flat white lights
against beige walls.
You still drift
in and out of sleep,
wake, wonder where you are
and fumble with the sheets,
and then go back to sleep
where everything you dream
makes perfect sense.
Last night, I told you
stories from my childhood
shaped by your loving care.
All the time,
you smiled up at the ceiling.
Then, your head turned
to my side.
Your pale blue eyes,
watery and wrinkled, saw me.
'We have a lifetime of memories, Ray.'
Suddenly, memory had changed
me, the son, into Ray, the friend.
Who can tell
why your mind needed
that friendship again?
'I'm sleeping at Ray Milski's, '
you told the nurse
as she tied your hands
to the side of the bed.
And all this
will be repeated tonight,
and will be repeated
tomorrow, and again
the next day, and the next.
What else is there to do
but talk over the past,
since the future for us
is shrinking,
all our delight squeezed
into the small spaces of the present.
The nurses loved him and told my sister and I he was one of their favorite patients. I wrote this poem the night I could no longer hide from the fact he was dying. Then that sentence - 'Losing your father is a profound experience.' - finally made perfect sense to me. This is one of the few poems I had to write. I had to turn this experience of loss into poetry, because long ago I chose poetry to be my soul. There is no other I can express this: Poetry is my Soul - Amen!
The poem brought tears to my eyes.Presently my father who is 87 years old lies bedridden.Even when we know the truth, we go on denying the truth.As you said- -we are not ready to face the truth. A profound write, thanks for sharing.The last stanza powerfully expresses how delights squeezed to small spaces of present- - - - but talk over the past, since the future for us is shrinking, all our delight squeezed into the small spaces of the present.
I'm so sorry for your loss. This poem has such relatable imagery in it. When you write about the blending of realities, and having these ghosts 'hurled' at you... It makes so much sense. Also the feelings and reactions of being 'mistaken' for Ray. The line where you describe your father sleeping at Rays while the nurse ties his hands to the best is telling on many levels. The last stanza is so very clear. I think your poem would be a comfort for other to read who have gone through or are going through a similar experience. Also, thanks for sharing your notes.
....daniel, thanks for sharing this one....and especially your poet's notes also....I always look forward to reading those....this is a heart-touching write....I really feel for you when I read this....losing a parent is never easy....my father passed away before I was a year old....so I will never know what you went through with your father....but I do know what it is like losing a mother....my mother was my best friend....and I wish things had been different and she could have lived to be a hundred or more....but we are given in our life only so much time....truly I am sorry for your loss....may your father rest in peace.....
Profound indeed! This poem is heavy, beautifully sad. The way you put your experience into words brought me to tears. That, is true poetry. You're extremely talented~ Also the way you described Alzheimer's was brilliant, and an amazing way to open a poem. It definitely caught my attention and made me want to read on. My condolences for the loss of your father, especially in such a manner. ~Nika
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 9:41:33 AM # 1.0.0.1119
this poem, daniel, though not about your dad's last moments, made me think of mine with my dad (see how faint and elusive) . the story is well-told, the poem well-crafted, and there's the surprise- him thinking you were ray his friend. i also like the compassionate perspective you show here. and in the close, the future for us is shrinking, rings a figurative bell with its resonance. good stuff. -glen