Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Family burdens fall most heavily
on those without families
perhaps children are such a burden
those with
think none greater.
Death understands families
do not understand pro rata
a long siege of accompaniment – care and visits
or unexpected lightning
with no one prepared or able.

30 years too soon
we expected him to reach the new century
and then 20 beyond to his own
he seemed so strong
but his heart wasn’t
Swift betrayal. Rapid abandonment.

The house will have to be cleaned out
no one now lives in our once hometown
my father asks if I could
“it would be easier for someone without kids.”

The crush generation
volumes tightly compressed by depression
bookended by war.
International travel in khaki
to Canada and pilot training
then Europe
for adventure tourism and nightlife of a different kind.
Returning home to absconded romance
and eternal bachelorhood
an adult child living with his parents
increasing into space they vacated.

The triage was surprisingly painful.
Three piles.
That to be kept.
That to be binned.
That to be thought about.

Everything needed to be thought about
I came to know him so much better in death
the trophies of athletic youth
the medals of distinguished service
the plays of Shakespeare, the Russian classics
a first edition of The Silent Spring.

the neighbour cried when I told her
It was comforting she felt the brutality of inventory I felt
his entire possessions
socks, underpants, shoes
books, medals, trophies
comprised six cardboard cartons.
None larger than a banana box.

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Fistfuls of light
thrown by sombre trees
strike unlikely sentinels.

Weathered soft toys
bleached wooden trains
threadbare windmills.

Scruffy, gentle markers
soften neat inscriptions
of brutal truth.

Dearly missed
aged 16 hours.
Two days.
Three weeks.
Five months.

Kate, Anna, Kyle, Melanie
never progressed to surname
will never require differentiation.

School remains unknown
as does inequality
and betrayal.

Innocence and loss
sway quietly together
grief’s slow waltz
painful and sweet.

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He came into our lives the year The Beatles took America
in the coolest symbol of that cool era
a yellow Mini Minor
hurtling around town
visiting the one and no car homes
with stethoscope, instrument bag and jelly beans.
He checked our ears for rabbits
throat for aahhs
co-operation rewarded with jelly beans.
Prescriptions were scrawled at the kitchen table
while drinking tea
coffee still traitorous in a former English colony
dispensing medicine of a different sort – listening
company for over burdened, over childrened housewives.

With formalities and informalities complete
A rush to the surgery and mobile patients.
People paid monthly then
the scalpel of welfare applied to invoices
many agreeably billed for a sum less than expected.
It was widely known some never paid – and were never refused.

Grandpop died of betrayal
his body ceased to obey the mind’s will
spirit fled to another billet. Death moved in.
There should have been an autopsy
being pissed off with yourself doesn’t hold with the coroner
Grandma didn’t want him cut up
through tears said her husband would hate that
lying on a table like a slab of beef on a butcher’s block.
He came in the dark family saloon that visit
perhaps the yellow Mini too flamboyant for such a calling
or being early Sunday morning
his wife didn’t need the big car as a taxi
listened sympathetically
and counterfeited the paperwork.

He wasn’t unique
carbon copies in every small town
doctors who job shared with themselves
multitasking as paramedic, physician, counsellor, social worker
making a good living but not the dollars possible.

Some things disappear so irretrievably
it is possible to believe that existence never was.
Extinction.
Medicine is a business nowadays
General Practice renamed primary health care.
The family doctor as altruist
gone
and gone forever. Dead a good many years.

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