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© Michael Ely/CC0

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Some Things Are Always With Us

Throughout the day, the sky has bled
boatloads of water to drown the streets,
a level of grief I have not known
since the day the e-mail arrived
with the heading, “Landing gear down,”
a note from a brother informing me
of my father’s passing in Oregon
while I was worlds away in Riyadh,
teaching Hamlet and Death of a Salesman
to the children of rich folk from

a dozen or more foreign lands.
Today I sit in an apartment in the town
where he moved on down the road,
staring out my living room window
as crows stream overhead, cats hide
under porches, children splash through
puddles and chase friends down the street,
and the rain strengthens and strengthens,
until it washes the street clear of every
animal, bird, and person; I rock for hours

in an old chair bought in a junk shop;
today is my day to grieve for all whom
I have lost, all who sit in the attic of my
forever active memory, but most of all
I weep with the tumbling rain outside
my door and window for the father I will
never see again, a man who blessed me
at our final parting, as I said goodbye,
headed back abroad where my life was;
departure rendered me bereft of speech,

on verge of tears that hovered for 7600 miles
as I abandoned a dying father to look after
the children of strangers. The day beyond
my window sustains its steady torrent, and
for hours I debate with myself about things
said and unsaid to all who have filled my life,
all who have mattered. Steady blasts of rain
and wind accompany my rocking chair’s dance;
I sleep at last and dream my father and I are
lads together roaming forests filled with silence.

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Michael L. Newell lives in Florida.  His new collection of poetry, Still the World Beckons:  New and Selected Poems, is now available 

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Listen to Brad Mehldau play “Old Man”  [Malpaso Records/Warner Records Inc.]

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