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Critical Analysis #2
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Trevor
Senior Member
since 1999-08-12
Posts 700
Canada

0 posted 2002-07-22 06:28 PM


     I have never seen angels born but I have seen one die and nothing since has scared me more.

     I did my best to avoid the moment where I had to confront my dying Papere but at the urging of my mother I journeyed to Sudbury to see him. The car ride, four and a half hours in total, always seemed overly long and tedious, however on that day, it did not seem long enough. Trees, rock, more rock and surreal Indian stone stacks kept my eyes busy but my mind was locked onto Papere. What did he look like, what did he sound like, what did he feel as his breaths could be counted?

    My nerves trembled as we pulled into his driveway. His house looked small, much smaller than when I was a child. I remember it being grand and covered in a lifetime worth of pictures and memories. I remember the smell of Mamere’s fresh bread baking, the wood stove burning, a swing chair creaking and a short, wrinkled, bald man smiling when his grandchildren walked through the door.

     Papere was old and had not only survived ninety-two years but prospered through them. Not as you may initially think, financially, but as a human, as a father, as a grandfather and as a great grandfather. His bloodline flowed wide and created musicians, athletes, nurses, teachers, police officers, bankers, union leaders, engineers and at least one aspiring writer. He was a woodsman in the traditional sense and though I did not know him in his youth, “Little Tarzan” assured me, with not only his physical prowess at an age where his counterparts struggled with stairs, but also with his strength of character, that he had earned every letter in that nickname.

     I always marveled at how hands that gripped more tight than any trap or snare he set could prance so gracefully on a fiddle’s neck and how he tamed many an Acadian Waltz to bite the dance into our feet. I think he spoke more with that fiddle than he ever did with words. He saved his sentences for lectures or teachings. He had a great sense of humor but rarely did he instigate a joke preferring to participate with a rolling laugh that often carried a joke’s effects well past its proper duration.

     It was all of this that made it so difficult to see him one last time. The “Tarzanian” physique had been exchanged for loose skin that hid nothing nor lied about his health. He had no laughter left, instead it was replaced with tears, sobs and trembles of fear. He hadn’t the strength to even turn in bed. It was like I was a child again and my favourite comic was torn to halves in front of me, spilling the truth of heroes at my feet.

     It was hard to believe the same life that birthed him young and strong now spoiled him old and frail. He had finally reached the moment that we all may discover in our lives, when the healthiest thing to do is to die.

    
He lifted his hand to hold mine and looked at me with eyes more foreign than familiar.

     “I’m so scared.”, I held his hand hoping it would not crumble.

     “It’s okay Papere. I love you.”, and I can’t remember if I kissed him or if I wanted to kiss him. If I didn’t, I wish I had, and if I did, I wish I could again. For that was the last time I was able to show him my affection and appreciation for a life well spent.    

    
     He began to cry again and he turned his head towards the window. I think it was shame he felt at not having a body to match his will or perhaps it’s that people cry with their last sights like newborns do with their first, for its frightening that neither have seen such beauty nor will they ever understand it.

     I placed his hand by his side and stroked his head.
      
     “Get some rest Papere. I’ll visit again later.”, there really are appropriate times to lie.

     With no comforts left to offer I departed. I could not envision how the constant reminders of people he had to leave behind would make passing on an easier transition. He had but one earthly task left to do and that was to die.

     And so he did on, July 26, 1997.

     I have never seen an angel born, I think angels take a lifetime to create, but I have seen one die and nothing has ever scared me more because it is a constant reminder. No matter what man I become, that too, shall be my fate.

Ya, it's a little long and not overly poetic but I'd thought I would post it anyways to accompany my other poem. Completely understand if no one feels like commenting or critiquing due to its length and format.

© Copyright 2002 Trevor Davis - All Rights Reserved
Not A Poet
Member Elite
since 1999-11-03
Posts 3885
Oklahoma, USA
1 posted 2002-07-23 05:35 PM


Trevor, again I won't try to critique. But this is a wonderfully written and beautiful tribute to a much loved grandfather. It actually brought a tear to my eye reading it.

Ok then, one very small comment. In the line

   "an Acadian Waltz to bite the dance into our feet"

bite just seems to be the wrong verb. The meaning is clear enough but the wrong word just jars the consciousness a little.

When my own father died, he had been unable to speak or even open or close his eyes for several hours. I tried to tell him that it was all right to go. When he finally breathed  the last time, a tear ran down each cheek. Maybe I'll post the poem my daughter read at his funeral.

Again, a wonderful tribute.

Thanks,
Pete

Trevor
Senior Member
since 1999-08-12
Posts 700
Canada
2 posted 2002-07-24 01:48 AM


Hi Pete,

Thanks for reading and commenting on this piece. Didn't know if I should post it here. I see what you are saying about "bite", seems a little too harsh a word for the effect.

You should post the poem read at your father's funeral or perhaps write a few more about your father or his passing on. If nothing else, it might make ya feel better. I know it always helps me deal with things.

Anyways, thanks again Pete. Take care,

Trevor

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