MY FATHER

'Harold Nicholas'  by  Trish

My father was an angry man.

From a very young age his anger,

imprinted itself upon my mind. 

But in spite of that fear filled imprint,

there are impressions in me,

that portray a better side of my father.

Perhaps the negative image of him was exaggerated by,
the ever present death imprint my mother had bestowed upon herself, and also from a very early age, upon me.

For as long as I could remember, and until she died at eighty six,
she would regularly take to lying on the lounge room couch,
or in the bedroom, with the blind down and her eyes closed,

in an ongoing state of fatigue and illness.

The illusive illnesses were a mystery to doctors, friends and family.

Only my mother could keep up with her endless symptoms,

and she announced them daily, ' I can't breathe, I'm choking,

for god's sake give me air, my skin is burning, I can't see a thing,
my back! my back!' As I got older, I puzzled on,
how she'd managed , with so many health problems,
and especially such a bad back, to have five children.

My father loved to walk in the Exhibition Gardens.
'There are ducks on the pond'  he would tell me,
as he placed stale  bread  in a paper bag.

He always had a thriving vegetable patch,

and grew fat luscious strawberries as well.

The garden was very important to him, as were his chooks.

I loved to go into their pen and gather the warm smooth eggs,

and hear the gentle sounds the hens made in the dimness.

On sunny days, they were allowed to walk around the back yard for a while.

I noticed that although the hens were locked inside most of the time,

they didn't seem to mind it. After they'd strutted, pecked and stared sharply

around the back yard, and the time came to return to their home,

they all, quite happily  filed into the dim pen, and continued their

strut amongst the fresh straw my father had placed there for them. 

There must be other nice things, to recall about my father that would bring a smile to my heart,

As I dig and unearth more, out of the garden of memories, I'll write about them.

                          (To be continued)

Tushie