I laid beside my father's withering frame ... in twenty minute inervals the horrors came... he would awaken in fits of agony ... i would lull interval tragedy / with the christmas carols that haunted through radio static from the hall way...
"im dreaming of a white christmas... just like the ones we used to know... where tree tops glisten ... and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow"
i would sing off key until the pain would go...
and place his body in a comfortable postion only his daughter could know... familiar with his peaceful sleep
one hand curled beneath his head ... one between his knees - a small token no nurse could possibly appease...
these small things rush to me in photographic memories...
and time slows to a crawl @ the recollection of it all...
...
alone - i play bing crosby and nat king cole ... i let what was once music to my ears ... now pierce my soul
in a masochistic ritual ... habitual grieving ... i let the music note salt the wounds that are seething...
believing in the pain
something tangible that remains... and while friends explain that happiness is equally real
reliving this moment feels ... closer than the dream ...
see
the problem with the traumatic ... is that nothing is left but static
no scars except the ones on your heart
no evidence of the awful ... no proof left in part ... only pain left in whole...
and a father shaped hole.
i know ... in all his days ... he wished happiness for me ...
and when i play music of his memory ....
my heart is screaming through the beating...
and fills my ears with
static ...
