He mumbled something
I couldn’t hear
in the tone that he used
when he ordered her to fetch.
I think he was saying
not to let him die.
I had a dream about him.
He screamed about
a minor task
not done his way.
No mistake,
just not his way.
He shook with such fury
I couldn't watch.
I knew
that he would hurt himself,
the anger
reaching,
twisting,
coiled,
inside me.
My mother sat
as he went
held his hand.
She heard
his final breath.
She cried a lot,
from that day on,
on holidays and evenings.
I want to feel guilty
that I don't miss him.
I only cried
for myself
and her.
At the time
I consoled myself
that there was no shame,
but a sort of freedom
for us both.
Alive we could
see him dying.
It was worse than
not missing him enough.
Now that I'm older,
it gets harder
to see oblivion as release.
The dream never stopped.
I never became him
but I can understand.
I can see the desperation
of walls closing in.
Shuddering gasps
and impotent whispers.
What use is that rage?
What purpose?
Still it curls
within.
Still I complain
and deny.
Still we beg
to forget.
