this is the door through which he entered. This side is painted white. The other’s a
mural of a red-hulled fishing boat on bright blue water under pale blue sky, a cloud-
shaped patch hiding a repair. On the patch, in unsteady black copperplate, is my
youngest brother's name. I suspect my father has written this, because this is the
way he entered and he hasn't returned
my father
escorts me to the boat door. We halt
in front of the digital lock, examine its mysteries. He raises an index finger, down-
curved like the bill of an ibis, pecks out numbers on a keypad in mid-air. Then waits.
The password fails me
Red-winged fairy-wren
outside the window,
envoy from karri forest.
awake
all Saturday night despite a pill at 11pm. When my
sister arrives to take Dad out for breakfast, he is dressed in his Sunday clothes,
seated on the edge of his bed
He’s hibernating
like the ancient tree he is named for,
red tingle preparing
for its regeneration
following a lightning strike.
he rarely speaks, but
a week after starting meds for
neuropathic pain, Dad takes my hands in his. When will you come again? he asks.
Soon, I promise, my heart pounding. I do, but his voice does not
pages
in my journal
are adrift. I've torn out their opposites for notes when Dad's hearing aids don't work. I
salvage one from a family breakfast in a café where noise overwhelmed us all. My
husband has written about the harbour outside, boats, fishing, and Is there anything
you’d like to tell Barbara? Dad's meticulously printed response is: I MISSED YOU!
Felled trees, half in
half out of the river,
bleached as white as invaders.
fresh
on special occasions,
Dad loved flowers, but that last
outside-Christmas we argued when he wouldn't have them in his home. They make
a mess! It had been decades since anger tumbled between us. I wonder now what
my father felt when I took the flowers, slammed the door! I should have stayed until
he unwrapped his other gift, the vase
reading
aloud to myself. Dad is stranded on
his bed sans hearing aids, blanket over his head, listening attentively
I’ve come
to dust Dad’s room and discover flowers, fake tiger lilies, on his altar. Everywhere
else, on and beneath the altar, are the accoutrements of a devotee: Tibetan singing
bowl; Bonsho bell; gong; essential oils, Roshi and family photographs tucked here
and there. Amongst the tangle of silk leaves and petals in a jar – placed with the
precision of a Zen master – a dried banana peel flowers
shelving books
I discover
The Essential Rumi contains more than Sufi wisdom. Bookmarks, the missing
contents of Dad's wallet: Driver’s License, Veterans’ Affairs Card; $50 note; several
meticulously folded tissues resembling wings. I've solved the mystery. Recovering
what I've found, I close the book, immediately regret not paying attention
Wetland reeds heavy with seed,
bracken bowed by wind.
Breeze speckles the water’s surface over sinker logs, wrecks,
abandoned nets.
the water
is turned off in his bathroom. No more fully clothed
showering in the middle of the night or doing laundry in the basin. My father lifts the
toilet seat. He removes his track pants, mindfully raising them up as though to peg
them on the line. Then he dips the lower legs into the toilet bowl and flushes
the new
patient
on the wing has left his belongings in a heap just inside the entrance. In the
first room to the left the new patient is sitting, waiting for someone from the outside.
Everyone is using the other entrance
the bushman
in him will love this book. I am
standing in the passageway reading to my father's back as he bump-bump-bumps
his walker against the bolted door. The forest is on the other side
The river’s joined with inlet,
inlet with sea, but I can’t
determine direction,
is the current flowing that way
or this? North or south?
the night nurse
says over and over the first thing she saw
was a trail of blood on the floor then Dad’s bloody feet. His bathroom-boat has been
leaking again. He stomped a bedsheet, a towel and three books into the toilet’s S-
bend, made things right
takes him, spits him out.
sitting knee to knee,
our new book in-between, Dad cranes forward
over the upside-down poems, gazes into my eyes as I glance up at him. I scan
another line, look up speaking
He’s still there
mural of a red-hulled fishing boat on bright blue water under pale blue sky, a cloud-
shaped patch hiding a repair. On the patch, in unsteady black copperplate, is my
youngest brother's name. I suspect my father has written this, because this is the
way he entered and he hasn't returned
my father
escorts me to the boat door. We halt
in front of the digital lock, examine its mysteries. He raises an index finger, down-
curved like the bill of an ibis, pecks out numbers on a keypad in mid-air. Then waits.
The password fails me
Red-winged fairy-wren
outside the window,
envoy from karri forest.
awake
all Saturday night despite a pill at 11pm. When my
sister arrives to take Dad out for breakfast, he is dressed in his Sunday clothes,
seated on the edge of his bed
He’s hibernating
like the ancient tree he is named for,
red tingle preparing
for its regeneration
following a lightning strike.
he rarely speaks, but
a week after starting meds for
neuropathic pain, Dad takes my hands in his. When will you come again? he asks.
Soon, I promise, my heart pounding. I do, but his voice does not
pages
in my journal
are adrift. I've torn out their opposites for notes when Dad's hearing aids don't work. I
salvage one from a family breakfast in a café where noise overwhelmed us all. My
husband has written about the harbour outside, boats, fishing, and Is there anything
you’d like to tell Barbara? Dad's meticulously printed response is: I MISSED YOU!
Felled trees, half in
half out of the river,
bleached as white as invaders.
fresh
on special occasions,
Dad loved flowers, but that last
outside-Christmas we argued when he wouldn't have them in his home. They make
a mess! It had been decades since anger tumbled between us. I wonder now what
my father felt when I took the flowers, slammed the door! I should have stayed until
he unwrapped his other gift, the vase
reading
aloud to myself. Dad is stranded on
his bed sans hearing aids, blanket over his head, listening attentively
I’ve come
to dust Dad’s room and discover flowers, fake tiger lilies, on his altar. Everywhere
else, on and beneath the altar, are the accoutrements of a devotee: Tibetan singing
bowl; Bonsho bell; gong; essential oils, Roshi and family photographs tucked here
and there. Amongst the tangle of silk leaves and petals in a jar – placed with the
precision of a Zen master – a dried banana peel flowers
shelving books
I discover
The Essential Rumi contains more than Sufi wisdom. Bookmarks, the missing
contents of Dad's wallet: Driver’s License, Veterans’ Affairs Card; $50 note; several
meticulously folded tissues resembling wings. I've solved the mystery. Recovering
what I've found, I close the book, immediately regret not paying attention
Wetland reeds heavy with seed,
bracken bowed by wind.
Breeze speckles the water’s surface over sinker logs, wrecks,
abandoned nets.
the water
is turned off in his bathroom. No more fully clothed
showering in the middle of the night or doing laundry in the basin. My father lifts the
toilet seat. He removes his track pants, mindfully raising them up as though to peg
them on the line. Then he dips the lower legs into the toilet bowl and flushes
the new
patient
on the wing has left his belongings in a heap just inside the entrance. In the
first room to the left the new patient is sitting, waiting for someone from the outside.
Everyone is using the other entrance
the bushman
in him will love this book. I am
standing in the passageway reading to my father's back as he bump-bump-bumps
his walker against the bolted door. The forest is on the other side
The river’s joined with inlet,
inlet with sea, but I can’t
determine direction,
is the current flowing that way
or this? North or south?
the night nurse
says over and over the first thing she saw
was a trail of blood on the floor then Dad’s bloody feet. His bathroom-boat has been
leaking again. He stomped a bedsheet, a towel and three books into the toilet’s S-
bend, made things right
takes him, spits him out.
sitting knee to knee,
our new book in-between, Dad cranes forward
over the upside-down poems, gazes into my eyes as I glance up at him. I scan
another line, look up speaking
He’s still there
Written & Spoken by Barbara Temperton
Sound Design and Music by Marianthe Loucataris
Sound Design and Music by Marianthe Loucataris