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Irene Livingston - Sam McGee, Cremated One More Time |
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The nursing home scrolls out before me. The elderly
sit like people in the park, waiting for a concert to begin,
not knowing it’s over. Maybe they wait for the next one,
the Big One with the Mystery Guest.
They wear faces of ancient newborns: innocent, blank.
Gone are all blots on moral character, streaks of jealousy,
gone like the daily grime that floats
down the drain with the soap and disinfectant.
Gone too are any traces of success,
accomplishments, passed on to offspring,
who bury them in their cluttered cupboards,
now and then disinter them when company comes.
Bits of smashed hopes swept away by patient,
indifferent Time. Caches of secret joys and stolen
pleasures stored somewhere out of reach, and even
if they could find their way to the doors, they have no keys.
There he slumps. My father, shrunken like an old
wool sweater, tied to his chair, as each of us
is tied to him, by threads of love or hatred or both.
I look into half-blind eyes, tell him which
grown-up kid I am. His face opens like a worn
leather purse, displaying bright coins of pleasure.
I take his two hands across the table.
He smiles. When did you get here?
I don’t tell him I’ve been in town for two days, afraid
to face this moment. Just arrived, I fib.
Oh. And you came right down to see me! The coins glimmer.
How are you feeling? how is the food?
Soon, with prompting, he recites The Cremation
of Sam McGee, rattles through Daffodils
like a wrinkled school boy. I tug his sleeve. Remember
the songs you played on your ukulele? Another glimmer.
I sing to him Yearning Just for You. His head nods,
as he joins in with scraps of words, shreds of sounds.
My mouth crumples around: Days have turned to years;
smiles have turned to tears..
Back at the house, I tell my mother he is happier there
than when he was at home, spurning his medication,
erupting into red explosions of anger.
She’s not convinced. She married him when
she was a brief fifteen and he her brash young
country teacher. Parts of what she is are hidden
somewhere deep inside this wizened little man.
Large fragments of me are in there too,
half cremated with the bones of Sam McGee.
Irene Livingston has published poetry and prose in numerous publications, including New York Stories, Buffalo Spree, Yankee, Midwest Poetry Review, The Fiddlehead, Event, SubTerrain, and Fireweed. She has won various awards and prizes, including the Leacock Award. She is the author of a children's book titled Finklehopper Frog, as well as its sequel, just released. She is a regular performer at the Vancouver Poetry Slam.
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