By: John K. Callaghan
Hello Daddy,Didn’t think of you once yesterday…Christmas.I invented the regiftfrom your presents,that oversized crossed striped sweateror cologne that reminded me of Saturday Night Fever.I was always inaccessibleso my Mom left a messageat school to call."Your father is in the hospitalhe has cancer and was giventhree months to live."Daddy I never owed youa fucking thing.Packed everythinginto two cardboard boxesand hopped the nextunforgiving Greyhound for New York never to return to Florida.Back at my mother's apartmentall I could think aboutwas buying a black suitfor your funeral.The next day went toAnn Marie’s house,my hippy philosopher girlfriend,to cop some potand have sex.She never combed thatlong wavy blond hair.It had actually becomeimpossible.Alone at the country house I got drunk on whatever was in the liquor cabinet, cleaned for hours and took the bolts out of the rifles.My cousin Ray, a stand up unimaginative guy, took me to the hospital. You looked OK and were your usual self, be home in two days. For a moment we locked eyes and a powerful silent sadness passed between us. On the way back from the hospital to Wolf Lake you got nauseous. Ray pulled over so you could throw up then gave you some gum. I kept up with the house, cleaning, cooking. Went fishing… cleaned and cooked them. Ray’s only wife recently died, a gorgeous woman, disordered, severely claustrophobic, she could not even ride in a car… thought it was a coffin. She desperately wantedto be cremated and Ray buried her. Ray and I went to Monticelloto pick out a casketand make the arrangements. Dead before you’re gone. The heat was turned up, visible deterioration, real pain, constipation, time released drugs. The public health nursetold me it would be rough going from now on. I found a way to double up on your Demerol script, popped them all night, chain smoked, blew joints, and drank pots of coffee. Your mind degenerated quickly from the morphine, you told improbable war stories, highly detailed, and claimed there was a mouse in your room. Stoned out of my mind we watched TV,Nick at Nite,Green Acres, Get Smart. Your comments crackedme up and I actually had a good time with you for a change. You were going into the stretch, black sores in unspeakable places, no eye contact, just hot tea with one ice cube. At night I had to tie you into the bed or chairwith my Karate belt and Kung Fu sash. Nurses two times a day, diapers, pain, odor, that good man, strong man so way gone. That last day the nurse told me you would have to be hospitalized soon and I remembered again you wanted to die in the house you built with dignity. More Demerol more coffee slamming my fists into the kitchen floor, biting my arm crying to Shiva. (Oh fuck there were timesI hated you!) It’s either tonight or the hospital tomorrow. It’s tonight. You were sleepingor passed out. I figured 20 ground up pills of morphine made into a thin paste would take you out quickly and painlessly. I sucked up the mix into a straw opened your mouth put it deep down your throat and blew hard worked your throattill you swallowed. You opened your eyesand I said everything would be fine soon, I loved you. Turned down the lights and put on your favorite album, Tony Mottola’s "Romantic Hits."I left for a bit to have a cigarette, painkiller, and cup of coffee screaming for understanding. Will you die? Did I do it right? I have to go back to hold you. Everyone must be heldwhen they die. Sounds in your lungs crackling, chest heaving, sweat… Don’t hang on you stubborn bastard! In my arms a final long breath out, your last, you die. I glanced at the clock, 12.05 a.m., time of death, then and only then I cried hard and long. I laid you out like I pictured a dead one should be, face up, eyes closed, palms crossed. I put a holy Hindu shawl over your corpse, then chanted the Guru Gita alongside your death bed. An hour later, out of my mind, I passed out till six in the morning then called the funeral home. Pick him up now. I pulled the shawl back and lookedat your dead body. You were a thing and a dead thing. Picked out a suit put pictures of your parents and Hindu saints into the breast pocket. They came soon and took your body away. I had no plans to attend your wake or funeral. My job was done. Mad, numb, mixed up, I walked three miles through the woods to a beautiful swamp broken and blastedby shrapnel…I’m just the shrapnel.Bye for now,Jack
(John K. Callaghan lives in New York City, his hometown, also having lived in Hawaii, California, Washington, Wisconsin, and India where he worked as a sound engineer. He is currently at a large city hospital as a counselor in the psychiatric department.During his formal education he was disappointed by the lack of depth or understanding of human nature by the main stream psychologists and took his cues from novelists and playwrights such as Charles Bukowski, Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Connor, Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, and Eugene O’Neill. He also finds inspiration from the music of Patti Smith, Lou Reed, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, and Daniel Johnston.John writes poetry in several styles but is most comfortable with the narrative form. He says, “Compared to relationships, all forms of learning shrink to insignificance.”)
Labels: John K. Callaghan, Poem
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