The call came on an ordinary Friday
While he lay in bed on his last day, his last hour.
His breath faltered, halted, then reluctantly restarted
As he had predicted so
Many
Times
Before.
Through the spotty phone connection I talked
Like he was a child
Like I was a child.
He may have listened; I don’t know.
I felt his struggle through the miles growing
Weaker.
I could imagine his mouth gawping like
Exhausted fish
At the bottom of his
Steel fishing boat.
He must certainly have been ready
This time
With so many
Dress rehearsals.
He must have at least imagined,
Recognized the sound of the
Knock.
Did the “Good Lord” knock?
Had pretense fueled his
Melodramas with false facts
For all these years?
We’d gather around his bedside, then,
Clothed in flannel and tears.
Spent years
Fawning over his newest
Impending medical catastrophe.
Transient, ethereal,
Imaginary, congenial illnesses
Riddled our childhood psyches.
Now, even the stench of him was too faint to detect
Through the wires, though I
Smelled the memory:
Muskyputridsourrottingunwashedfestering flesh.
Clarity and clouds fought for power in his
Confused, addled mind.
Was this it?
Finality.
No more dress rehearsals?
Years rushed past,
stale breeze brushing
My cheek
Or was that a tear?
No.
Penitence only works on the
Repentant, and like
Fishing nylon on a trot line,
Snaps under the weight of
Forgiveness.