A sequence of thoughts about my 89 year old father, written not long before he died in December 2000

Father Mine

Once brown and muscled, now pale and lean, patterned by rivers of veins.
Eyes often moist, easily reduced to tears.
In younger days, strong striding steps, steady, without fear;
now an unsteady shuffle, with help of stick.
Mind often confused, muddled, forgetful, frightened and dreamy …
‘Did I take my pills? Where did I put them?’
Tired old bladder demanding in waking hours.
‘Darn it’s time for a pee!’

No thoughts of fun. Only happier days when Mum was alive,
then sadness, despair. Thoughts of impending end to life. To sit alone in a room.
Main stay for existence? Two four legged mates, as aged as he, a dog and cat.
Overweight with kindness, displaced it seems, to son and daughter.
The daughter’s me. He’s Father mine!
But he’s not the father that I knew.
He’s wizened, frail, dependent,
or so we think.

In Father mine’s mind, he’s independent.
‘This house is mine! Hell will freeze before I leave!’
We move away in hope he may ask for help that he needs,
and not feel we intend foul deeds!
Whatever happens, ‘tis out of our hands.
His life’s under control of a far higher command … Father Time…
An old man holding a scythe .The image merges into my father holding his stick!

He seems unaware of our worries, that we really do care.
He tries to cover mistakes. Is it fear of discovery, or done by stealth?
No spouse, failing senses, a house far too big, and a body frail.
Unable to do ‘normal’ chores like cleaning, gardening,
Drivers license has been revoked. The list’s endless.
How would I feel? Oh Father Mine,
Damn Father Time!