By Cecil Morris
Or right-click here to download the audio file: In My Father’s House
The house that dementia built my father
filled with people. It hummed with talk both day
and night, a host of long lost relatives
returned to relive stories he had never
shared with me. Sometimes I was his brother,
the younger joking brother I at least
knew but seven years late then, and sometimes
I was his older brother or his father,
men I had never met. Dad would tell stories
and I would add comments—I remember
that now or that must have made you laugh,
little feats of reflexive listening
that made his eyes light up, made him chuckle
and squeeze my arm with fingers harder
than any I remembered from my youth.
Uncle Tob made appearances and Martin
and Aunt Nora and Peg, who might have been
a dog.
And, when family would not appear,
when Dad seemed most vacant, lost, his blue eyes
faded gray and dull, his body sinking
in his recliner, Dad’s friends from the old shows
came a-calling. When I’d bring him apple
slices and peanut butter toast and urge
him to eat, he’d tell Barn to calm down,
to hold his horses. He’d tell Festus
he needed a shave and a new hat
and to get his horse saddled and ready
for him to ride. Some days he’d ask me
to call in Della.
And some days I would
be me, his son, and our conversation
would be the dull stuff of work and which birds
had visited the feeders in his yard,
the feeders I have at my house now.