A trilogy on death in thirds.
Death by text.
Today my father died and I was informed by chance by a forwarded text,
‘How sad’, thought I, nothing new there then; not scarcely the death,
I rushed to my big brother’s bedside in case anger and pain enveloped him next.
There was anger, and perhaps some mottled pain, but more anger pink then red,
I listened and thought and scorned the cruelty in the family ranks,
Bought him soup and vodka, and watched him cough up his lungs in slurried breath.
I felt so alone; tired of repeating myself in the mighty quest for balance; drawing blanks,
Reassuring my big brother that I was fine, just miffed and confused by the cold manipulation,
I felt miserable that other than that I felt nothing, except for the thinning of the offence; thanks.
The prequel to the never text.
Speaking to my solicitor I was interrupted by a call saying, ‘Your father has refused to see you.’
It wasn’t completely unexpected; the thickness of hatred bullying and fence-standing had been intense,
I wondered who was really looking after my father in all of this; as we, he and me were denied the chance, by truth lieu.
The week before I had saved my mother dying an unnecessarily painful death by commonsense,
I’d had to say there was a lack of trust; because how could there be trust without compassion,
But this had been met with such rage of others that I was drained, confused and fatigued thence.
My mother had been saved to make her death a dignified one and one with pain cessation in time.
Relieved I was, but struck by the immense shock at having been so harshly whipped for showing mercy.
That bitterness so outweighed adult commonsense without reason nor anything masquerading as rhyme.
The motive or truth.
One can only feel compassion for others if one can feel compassion for one’s self and forgiveness.
Only when one can forgive ones-self, is one able to have enough compassion to forgive others.
Rage is the biggest barrier in clarity and without clarity one cannot see what to forgive, or less.
Immediate forgiveness is not healthy; as it is unlikely that lessons are learned, merely covered.
Drugs are the next barrier after the rage and probably medicating the rage and some.
The rage that comes from fear and pain; and it is hard to reach in and let it be discovered.
Even as I delivered my mother to visit my father on his deathbed, I was refused as if some scum.
I left hurt; keeping mother strong, trying to find explanation of how this had come to be; without aspersions,
I stood ten feet from my father and was not allowed to say ‘So Long’, discovered by text when his time had come.
©Fiona M Chapelle 1 February 2012
