Poem for my Father - Harold J Greenwold

POEM FOR MY FATHER (29th anniversary of his death on 7-13-09)

In memory of Harold J. Greenwold, b. May 4, 1921, d. July 13, 1980

I. Tell me your secret, says the solicitor

My father was a master at saying no.
When they called him up for a drawing for a free home in the Poconos
if only he’d accede to some ridiculous demand of theirs,
a survey, perhaps, or attending a matinee in an auditorium in downtown Philly….

but let us stop here and remember him before the phone rang,

it was October but the red leaves bore no beauty,

he was wandering around the house,
a man at home during the day,
in his bathrobe,
wearing men’s slippers that I never cared for,
they were so un-hip,
they sloshed over the floor making silly noises,

not the way I cared for his handkerchiefs anyway,
giant handkerchiefs that, when he was at work, I’d fish
from the second drawer in allergy season,
or borrow from the same drawer a pair of his
long black stretch socks. I took the liberty of using his
razor also when I took a shower and shaved my legs
in the master bathroom.

He raised fierce hell about the razor thing.
I always promised never to do it again, but always did, and tried
to wipe away the little hairs as best I could
but in some mysterious fashion he always found them.
There must have been little hairs stuck to the blade.
They were always better razors than mine,
real Gillettes with those double bladed
edges – swords - they talked about on commercials, not el cheapos like mine.

We were in the family room, like two lost golden retrievers,
Dad and I, not my favorite room, dark wood paneling that looked
fake, a stone fireplace I couldn’t reconcile
with the rest of the house,
I never liked my parents’ taste in houses,
though I’ve always lived there,
always read my books there, but my father and I
found ourselves this day down in the family room,
there was a red phone hanging on the wall.

And I was accompanying him on his journey
around the house, looking at all the things he loved, the carpets that
came all the way from China, the unabridged dictionary
that stood on the desk from B. Altman. You could even,
if you wanted to, look out the patio door and see the leaves
on the trees outside. I hated them.
My father’s body looked smaller
in his robe. He hadn’t shaved in days
and the stubble was coming in like a dark forest.

We were right there at the foot of the stairs
where the red phone hung on the wall.
Mom was big on fashion and color accents, its
long cord curling in stylish little perm’d curls, Rapunzel hair,
falling nearly to the floor. It rang. He had nothing
to do all day but pick up the phone, it was like
a miracle that it rang and gave him something to do,
this is my father, you must remember, who played
ping pong as if it were the World Series, hitting
the ball with his brother Marv,
arm cocked in battle.

You could hear that ball, goddamit, the syncopation of that hollow little plastic thing
wherever you were in the house, - even if you were upstairs in the pink bathroom,
you could hear it, that da-dum, da-dum, like Pygmy drumbeats.

So he got the phone as if it had come to save his life,
he answered it and held the red receiver to his ear.
I was never able to appreciate the charm he held over women,
or why he read that charismatic bullshit he subscribed to – Morris Cerullo! –
that was just the way he was, and I could vaguely hear the female voice on the other end,
you can always tell it’s female because it’s higher up,
and then, he was very kind and waited until she was done,
he had time,
and waited until she was done,
and said in that calm voice that made him famous, even to this day,
“I just got out of the hospital with a brain tumor and have six months to live,
what would I want with a house in the Poconos?”

II. Think only of the arbor vitae

“It’s like I’m walking through cobwebs,” he said at the start.
“Like there’s cobwebs and I’m pushing my way through them.”
When it happened, all this and sundry up to the hospital bed in
the family room and that bedstand that swings out in front of you when you eat
and then rolled away when you’re done.

I thought, My God, is this how I will remember my father? Yellow and immovable and needing to be fed and hearing him slurp,
bald, of course, like they always are after radiation, and the box-like commode next to the bed waiting for his next bowel movement?
And those godawful vegetable drinks my mother made for him, believing until the last moment they would save him, them and their orange bubbles and pieces of carrots that weren’t pulverized entirely?

I wondered what it felt like to lie next to a man
who was dying slowly next to you, rotting on the
inside, the smell of him not your father’s anymore,
the look of him certainly gone, oh I tried to memorize
what it felt like being with him, it was impossible,
but if truth be told he stopped being my father early in the game.
I hated going in. I had to read the newspaper to him.
That was my job. He appointed me. I had to do it
every day for six months while his head grew
massive with disease.

Can you imagine what that does to a girl
to see her father like that?
We used to play catch in the front yard when he’d come home from work.
He’d go in for supper and then I’d wait for him on the front lawn,
there were some arbor vitae growing near the porch, and he’d
pitch high balls to me.

Pitch… that’s entirely the wrong word.

He’d throw a ball underhand into the sky, as high as it could fly.
And the neighbors would come out of their houses to feel
the warm summer breeze on their cheeks, and he’d say, “Watch Ruthie catch
the high flies!” He’d throw the ball up and I’d look high into the sky,
and could never figure out where it went.
I wondered, How could it disappear so quickly?
And then in the middle of my puzzlement,
there it was! sailing down with terrible speed,
getting larger and larger,
time going faster and faster,
while I’d circle around the grass
in silent ecstasy -
choose my place to stand and
expect its imminently perfect arrival.