My Father’s Memories
For Paul O’Reilly
My father enters the guest bedroom at three-seventeen
in the morning after emptying his aged bladder, climbs
into bed with me having forgotten that I am home
for three days from across the seas, having forgotten
which bedroom he was sleeping in. Dad falls asleep
on the couch in the middle of the afternoon while reading
my latest book, wakes confused twenty-seven minutes later,
does not know where he is, whose lounge room he sits in.
After ten minutes of Mum’s patient reassurance, he understands
he is at home. Seemingly lucid again, he asks Mum
when I will arrive from Texas, forgetting I arrived
the day before, hugged his frail body in the driveway,
gave him my new book – forgetting that we ate dinner
together at the kitchen table, that I washed the dishes
with him, walked with him as he gave me a tour of the garden,
showed me the massive pile of firewood some young blokes
delivered – forgetting that he showed me the grave of the cat
who died defending the neighbour’s toddler from a tiger snake.
My father’s memories disintegrate, depart on the wind
like the ashes of black wallabies incinerated
by the bushfires visible from his front verandah.
in the morning after emptying his aged bladder, climbs
into bed with me having forgotten that I am home
for three days from across the seas, having forgotten
which bedroom he was sleeping in. Dad falls asleep
on the couch in the middle of the afternoon while reading
my latest book, wakes confused twenty-seven minutes later,
does not know where he is, whose lounge room he sits in.
After ten minutes of Mum’s patient reassurance, he understands
he is at home. Seemingly lucid again, he asks Mum
when I will arrive from Texas, forgetting I arrived
the day before, hugged his frail body in the driveway,
gave him my new book – forgetting that we ate dinner
together at the kitchen table, that I washed the dishes
with him, walked with him as he gave me a tour of the garden,
showed me the massive pile of firewood some young blokes
delivered – forgetting that he showed me the grave of the cat
who died defending the neighbour’s toddler from a tiger snake.
My father’s memories disintegrate, depart on the wind
like the ashes of black wallabies incinerated
by the bushfires visible from his front verandah.
Nathanael O’Reilly is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Terminals, Separation Blues: Poems 1994-2024, Dublin Wandering, Landmarks, Boulevard and Preparations for Departure. He is Associate Professor of Creative Writing at The University of Texas at Arlington and poetry editor for Antipodes: A Global Journal of Australian/New Zealand Literature.