My Santiago

Letting Go… (2004)

My father is losing his memory.

He sits for hours on end, Each new day, In his special place, His well-worn chair, And studies Backs of envelopes, Glossy advertising inserts, And books- Long unraveled in his mind. He looks with avid focus, Trying to recapture What he knows he has lost. He picks up his life story Reverently, Leafing through the pages,

Each instance rediscovering a past. Taking it back for one brief moment From that dark country to which it has fled.

He revels in discoveries, Reading a few sentences

Haltingly. Chuckling At youth’s audacity.

The meeting with the woman, His wife, my mother! His athleticism, And rugby prowess On cramped soggy fields in Wales, Screaming matriarchs, umbrella-equipped, Intent on tripping speedy wingers!

His sorties in Lancasters, Over Germany, Burma, Egypt. His crew and their charmed life, Four years, three theatres, one last will and testament; No deaths!

Convinced he has no children, I am the “nice young man” Camped in his temporary Adelaide home. Temporary, Until he goes back to his tropical island, His Taprobane, His Ceylon,