at my father-in-law
(pushing ninety-seven)
over a bath, well overdue,
to which he had agreed
but changed his mind
He swore first
but I swore second,
well knowing I had already lost,
most of me watching impassively
as I snatched the covers
and gritted my teeth,
feeling the hapless euphoria
of my loud words,
wondering why I was doing this.
I gave up, put the covers back on him,
took myself on a bike ride
to Think About It.
I entertained the stories
that could flock to this one,
as indeed I’ve heard his children say,
in sorrow and frustration
more than once:
“He’s never thought of anyone
except himself, never
admitted wrong, never apologized,
never felt remorse, just justified.”
And yet, I find, I’m not, in fact, enmired.
I’d do as well to get in knots about a kite
that disobeyed my tugs, and dipped and dove
against the wind. When I come back,
I guess he’ll have forgotten,
like all the things that happen in his days
(the sleeping and the eating and the dozing)
and the slow and solitary work
of drifting away.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 23, 2016
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