...Three Days...

Out of mind;     out of sight.

The eyelid drops, and 

self illumination     turns to a single source.

The brighter the light,

the darker the shadow that falls beneath,

and when all you have is a solitary bulb,

shadows are thrown which limit your perception.

For everything that’s defined by 

   glowing incandescence,

   there is that which resides      

      in shadow.

That which catches the heel of the foot.

Brings the unsure step… 

The falter.  The stumble.

The collapse      into dark abyss.

There exists in my father’s mind

a bulb that illuminates memories.

A light of such intensity that

he can easily proffer a cascade of stories

that will surely mesmerize and delight.

And yet abundant as they are…  

   I want more.

I want all the stories he cannot tell.

Those that dwell

   beyond the domain

      of the filament’s limited glow.

Within my father’s mind,

he holds a particular memory

   so close to this inner light,

that its opaque presence throws

memories that lie beneath 

   into veiled obscurity.

In this chiaroscuro realm of shadow and light,

the weave of memories interlace

   across his mental canvas,

and any story’s thread

   ultimately flows into the adjacent dark.

Recollections of a colorful past

come to abrupt halt for 

   they’ve arrived at a dusky edge

   where any further step

   potentially    brings the fall.

For every son, a father.

Every father, a mother.

Memories of any grandmother 

are mostly  those of our youth. 

With age we come to realize there was 

much more to who she was in reality, 

and you soon  come to dwell on 

the relations of others who truly knew her.

And who better to ask than her son? 

“What was she like Dad?”

“What do you remember?”

In that I have a mother

it is obvious my father had as well,

and yet of this relationship 

we are not permitted

any act     of reminiscence.

Here…

Let me ask you this:

Do you remember yourmother?

There in your mind, floodgates open

and an abundance of recollections

   come gushing forth.

Moments of tender embrace from your youth.

Whimsical episodes from days of adolescence.

That certain re-acquaintance 

   found in mutual adulthood.

The reversal of care in those later years.

All the good there within,

   as well as      all the bad.

Available to family and friends

   with a mere verbal precursor

   of     “I   remember when…”

And yet for my father,

all these same memories reside 

at the bottom of a flight of wooden stairs.

His mother was a solitary woman who

    lived a life of quiet isolation.

Decades of abuse and a brutal divorce

   had left her bitter

   and void of smile, 

and yet    my father cherished her.

Though living some distance away,

he endeavored each week to stop by

   and spend some time.

An adoring son, 

he would forever and 

always be there for her.

For every house,   a basement.

Every basement,   a flight of stairs.

A for every flight,    the topmost step

   and all those that proceed to concrete.

She fell.

Collapsed down those steps

   and came to rest with a broken hip.

It took her   three days   to die.

Three days when it just so happened

   that    no one called.

No one stopped by.

No one until a neighbor

    who had a key     did. 

And then the phone call.

The brutal knowledge of three days darkness,

a frail old woman calling out her son’s name  

   there at that bottommost step.

Three days that 

obliterate a lifetime of moments,

   for all those moments 

   are now brutally connected

   there in his tortured mind.

Every memory,

whether cherished    or pained, 

   ends up at the edge of 

   one particular blank of wood.

One specific stair 

   out of many.

There at that stumble.

There at that collapse.

Would that I could take away 

   that specific memory

and replace it

   with another,

I surely would.

                                                                    

©08 Jack Hubbell