Dad
written by: Bernie Murphy
The first time his intestine flipped
I ran to church in flip-flops,
Burning the skin of my feet
As I tried to keep up with my arthritic mother
Who paced ahead at a gallant speed,
A near-perfect portrait of a wrapped-up shepherd
Bracing the moors.
Later, I chopped onions in a semi-trance,
Time momentarily frozen, everything shaking still.
The knife hit the glass cutting board like an anvil,
My eyes laser-focused on the tea-stained unit below
While the blisters on the insole of my feet wept.
My brother folded laundry and washed cups at the sink,
Without being asked,
As the turning hands of the clock hypnotised us,
Waiting for the phone to ring under the red hue
Of his Sacred Heart.
Hours earlier, I’d tickled his toes in the hospital bed
Singing If you leave me now, you’ll take away the very heart of me!
He chuckled and grinned, Was that Chicago?
No idea, I said,
Ooh-ooh-hoo, no, baby, please don’t go.
