Category: Death

He was 19 when it began
working as a printer
playing sport on Wednesday half holiday
and again Saturday afternoon.
Doing the things 19-year-olds do
learning about cigarettes and beer
and discovering women liked him
he always admitted surprise to that.

Grandma said he only had to hear a ball bounce
and would rush to join in.
War
just another game
minus Queensberry rules
it would all be over by Christmas
a chance to go to England
perhaps stay on and tour the continent.

Ypres.
Somme.
Messines.
Passchendaele
as much him as the four yet to be born children.
Chlorine.
Typhoid.
Shrapnel
strained through mud into DNA.

Very few of his intake returned
the family never knew the percentage
or exactly how many death declined at the smorgasbord
“not many.” Two words. One answer. Zero addition.
“Not many.” Usually defined by single figures.

Death. Always on the take
even when the present is vacated to past
an absentee landlord extracting arrears.
It wasn’t the nightmares
they ceased after two decades
the lungs of barbed wire
bloody mindedness overcame that
or the loss of beloved sport
self-employment abducted any training time.
It was youth
dead and buried in Belgium’s fields.
He was old at 21.

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It is said life is a comedy for those who think
and a tragedy for those who feel
a more compassionate
less back of envelope division
than half glasses – full or empty.
Half full or half empty?
As if the emotions of men and women
contain no ambiguity, no apostasy, no proselytism
never require bracketing of alternative.

Recall would never yield her name without struggle.
Theresa?
Tania?
Tina?
Thelma? Thelma, that was it.

Her head was always covered
mask at jaunty half mast
or cheerfully in place
a warm word
or ruffling smile of acknowledgement.

I saw her out of work just once
in a busy cafe
she said, “don’t you recognize me with my clothes on”
to the amusement of the table.
Risqué was fact
I had only ever seen her in scrubs.

It was her 16-year-old daughter who found her
one Friday afternoon after school
hanging in the lounge.
Where does the purity of snow go
when it bleeds dirt to slush
or humour when its creator surrenders to demons?
It was a line I used for less than a year
I could never repeat the story
without thinking of her
and how comedy became tragedy.

For the back story click Backstage
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In an attempt to be individualistic
all high school foyers are identical
the lists of distinguished athletes and scholars
the gallery of robed former principals.

The reception area divided asymmetrically
the rigid stratification of airline lounges
inmates on the linoleum of the corridor
visitors the comfort of seats
and acoustic reduction of carpet.

Behind the sliding glass partition
a secretary bustles efficiently
smiling at people who matter
kind to those who don’t.
Yes. Have a seat. He won’t be long.

He, the Head of Department
the man I am here to see.
the person whom if I’m lucky will be a minor Messiah
or if such terminology is permissible, fairy godmother.

15 minutes late but cheer absolves him
flurry of handshake, apology and disarming admission
of congenital inability to conform with time.
A handclap signals the interview is underway -and mobile.

Down corridors
hands are flung at the orchestra of tasks
baton change chatter scores expectations.
A door opens erupting a wave of teeming captives
he continues to address the space from which I have been swept.

The music fades the carousel to completion
to chat in his office.
Anything I can’t do? No. Good.
I struck him as competent. Thank you.
The pay is…. “When could you start?”

The drive home is bliss
doubt and uncertainty recede.
I stop to purchase a celebratory bottle
three days later a letter.
Thank you …..Unfortunately.

For the back story click Backstage
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