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Second Place Winner:
Irene Lingingston
Sam Mc Gee, Cremated One More Time
Nursing home scrolls out before me. The elderly sit
like people in the park, waiting for a concert to begin,
not knowing it's over. Maybe they wait for the next one,
the Big One with the Mystery Guest. They wear faces
of ancient newborns: innocent, blank. Gone are all blots
on moral character, streaks of jealousy, gone like the daily grime
that floats down the drain with the soap and disinfectant.
Gone too are any traces of success, accomplishments,
passed on to offspring, who bury them in their cupboards,
now and then disinter them when company comes.
Bits of smashed hopes swept away, by patient,
indifferent Time. Caches of secret joys and stolen pleasures
stored somewhere out of reach, and even
if they could find their way to the doors, they have no keys.
There he slumps. My father, shrunken like an old wool sweater,
tied to his chair; as each of us is tied to him, by threads of love
or hatred or both. I look into half-blind eyes, tell him which
grown-up kid I am. His face opens like a worn leather purse,
displaying bright coins of pleasure. I take his two hands
across the table. He smiles. When did you get here?
I don't tell him I've been in town for two days, afraid
to face this moment. Just arrived, I fib.
Oh. And you came right down to see me! The coins glimmer.
How are you feeling? how is the food? Soon, with prompting,
he recites The Cremation of Sam McGee, rattles through.
Daffodils like a wrinkled school boy. I tug his sleeve.
Remember the songs you played on your ukulele?
Another glimmer. I sing to him Yearning Just for You.
His head nods, as he joins in with scraps of words,
shreds of sounds. My mouth crumples around:
Days have turned to years; smiles have turned to tears.
Back at the house, I tell my mother he is happier there
than when he was at home, spurning his medication,
erupting into red explosions of anger. She's not convinced.
She married him when she was a brief fifteen and he
her brash young country teacher. Parts of what she is,
are hidden somewhere deep inside this wizened little man.
Large fragments of me are in there too,
half cremated with the bones of Sam McGee.
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