Article voiceover
When my father died, I was 36 years old and could've carried him like he was a newborn because illness had taken so much of him away. But now, at 56, I'm weaker and I know, with my bad back, I couldn't carry him anymore. I couldn't wield the shovel to dig his grave. I couldn't lift his coffin no matter how strong the other pallbearers might be. I couldn't cradle him in my arms as I transported him on the last journey from his bed to the waiting ambulance. But I still hold the enormous weight of his death. I still tremble and lose my breath— I buckle and almost fall—when I remember the many, many times—since my birth and until his death— that my father carried me.
Here’s the post that inspired my poem:
And, as mentioned in this poem’s audio intro, here is that David Bowie song.
Thank you for this.
I was thirty when my father died in McKinleyville, CA. The last time I saw him, I held his emaciated body upright from behind while he urinated. It was like holding a bag of feathers. He laughed as he pissed in the toilet and yelled, "How did I sire such a bull!" Later, I would sift through the possessions my father kept in his precious Ford Econoline van, all the while thinking of Victor Joseph going through his father's trailer. I still have my father's last unopened pack of unfiltered Camels and a note to himself saying "Don't die from this shit."
It has been nearly fifty years for me and the loss still haunts me. I have to agree with Mr. Ferguson, your writings about your father and his death have been beating me up for a lot of years. But it is a good thing. As long as I feel the pain, I know I am alive and the good memories stay alive also. Thank you Sherman