there is a cremation that comes. it barks at us from a good distance, not to be kicked again, and when it comes and buries itself in the flesh of my poor parents- like a raven on holiday..i shall weep and retch then- and yet the smell is stronger that i could have imagined.
a two week holiday…not as such as a proper holiday was had by me alone in absence of their company. a German Shepard could have well alerted my station to the starvation of my father. but, with none such around i found about quietly up the stairs and through the hall and found my father after 9 pm, unfed and hungry. not the type of hunger that kills. he has been well saved and served by his new exterior of fat and gut and as ever strong arms. arms never that learned to launder, as was the fashion, arms fit for work, but not for making sandwiches or playing house. (for one he might have eaten his hand in knowing that dinner was not any more near than my mother was.)
his eyes were not desperate, but his tone betrayed him, he was hungry. and what am i? i am the trained chef. the culinary success. the only small peace of a pride that only a son-less man could appreciate. i hurried about a sub-par sandwich bearing the key ingredient for life: bread, the hearth of any meal. shaved turkey.. strange cheese, mayonnaise, mustard and a side of tortilla chips.
it was the best of my duty to pull the cockroach eaten bread slices from the rest. it was mine borne to check of dates of expiration. i pulled from the dumpster of a fridge the things i felt sure were not possibly poison and i made dear father a sandwich. it was well past dinner and at nine, i had discovered the need and within a half hour we had discussed the situation and my poor mother. all i can claim is that my father of many a great year did not starve… not tonight, as pitiful as what i could offer from my mother’s dumpster. it’s not without proper refrigeration and holds a great deal of the grotesque in a sort of stasis of museum quality food decay. it’s an exhibit in a way. no one i know has seen a fridge such as this and after i clean it, time and time over it takes on, again, the form of which it is best accustomed, chaos.
maybe i should have fed mother too. the hour was growing late but, a sandwich wouldn’t undo her fetid hatred, her strain, stress and pain might have landed me a sandwich upon my face. hardly. the woman’s aim was not what it might have been since her eyes could not bear the cause of alertness.
where am i now? i cannot go back under their roof. no short-lived act of courtesy on their part could put up with my disability. they’ve said as much and i don’t need to be told twice.
after my ascent with my father’s sandwich and some chips on the side. my mother busied herself on her own answer to my diligence.
when i came upon it, it was a three layer bread pile, most eaten by cockroaches, but she had poured coffee, ground and ready to brew, near and betwix the layers and i think she might have brought it to my father, had i not assured her that i had fed him, for she had forgotten, and that he was off to bed.
i packaged up the untouched bread, threw the ground coffee into the trash and i hugged my mother like i do my child and told her that i wasn’t far and i could be of help anytime.
too bad that my spinal issues and disabled condition make that statement almost a lie. i will not suffer her starving my father however… and i will lose even more of myself to this battle, maybe all of me.
sounds impossible, but i am of a weak mind and spirit now. weaker than ever before.