Chemo

Upon
Upholstered chairs of
Blue and yellow gingham
Father sat with a
Deadpan face.
I could read his mind
Through the anguish in his
Dark brown eyes- so like mine
Yet so different.

I watched the IV drip
Steadily,
I could not hear but in my own way,
I heard.
Staccato rhythm,
In tune with
The woodpecker outside,
But singing a song with a
Different theme- one upbeat to
Welcome the springtime, the
Other, dismal, as an
Elegy.

I spoke a few words
Out into space.
No response but a
Shudder, as I
Looked around the room.

Other chairs,
Upholstered with the same
Blue and yellow gingham fabric,
Upon which more dying people were sitting.
IV’s dripping seemingly
In a symphony with
One another-
Or some tragic musical.

My eyes cast about the room
Envisioning pallid faces
Contorted with
Pain, concern and hopelessness.
Yes, just like my father, but
Yet so different.

My father’s deadpan face was really
Not altogether different,
But was just to me.
I felt the same anguish which
I read
Through his eyes.

Birds in the trees outside
Sang a chorus to
Welcome springtime.
This was one springtime I would not forget.
This was a room I would always hold in memory-
A room that looked like a living room
Where dying people were
In denial
All because of this gingham upholstered furniture,
Which would give them another chance at life-
So what was different about my father?

My father was smart enough to know the difference,
He couldn’t be fooled
By a room filled with living room furniture
Where Mother sat a year ago who then
Was in remission and was sitting now in
The chair by his side with the IV hooked to her arm
Dripping steadily, as she
Desperately said the rosary…

Claudia Krizay (schizoclaud)