Day My Father Died
Friday, June 24th. It’s easy to remember,
being halfway before and after.
Record low temperature. November 22nd
draws close. By now, in 2005, he told me he needs
to go somewhere. The day my father died,
I could not cry; my mother did. His face
on the pillow in the faux moonlight.
Rote morning, black and white, I was walking
home from the library carrying nine
books. That’s the way my memory
sees it, but I can’t know exactly nine.
“It was the worst day of my life.”
The Day My Father Died (updated
with pictures). Rate: 36 Flag. Explain why.
We laid flowers on him on the way to bringing
the girls to ballet. free mp3 download,
music search, THE DAY.
Listen to, play, stream. The weeks following
countless people “it will get easier.”
Now seven years later, I say it:
A true, personal story from the experience
I Miss My Dad. Thursday, April. The day started pretty.
My father, I should have been
laughing, but the joke was too clear. [Archive]
The Day My Dad Died General Discussion.
He died and I have been searching
a ton of poems. An aneurism. Here one day,
Mademoiselle, May 2001.
Saturday night January years ago,
my father, sister and I. A letter
to my heavenly Father about
the day my earthly Dad stepped over.
He had been on hospice and had Lewy there.
I needed to be near, to inhale his scent.
“I want to kill you,” my mother screamed…
My dad, Pierre,
was diagnosed with cancer in February, passed
5 weeks later 4 days after
his 71st birthday in palliative care.
The hour he died we were in two different places.
I sat by. He f. Year Thumbsucker
was released. I always thought he’d reappear.
I’m slipping away from the child he made.
Went to work as usual.
He was one of those Mir Murtazo.
Previous · Next. I was walking home from the
library carrying nine. It’s coming up
to 7 years on boxing day since. The best
thing for me to do is. One dark morning
in the seventies. Diagnosed with chronic rare gift
of understanding and consolation for daughters everywhere.
The day my father died (cont.),
I just sat there, listening to my sisters screaming.
My roommate threw a party. No One Cared. My mother
shelled out over ten grand. I was
living in Rome, eating carbon, sleeping on a rock and mumbling to myself.
This week marks the anniversary. Many years—sixteen—
and the day my father died was the first time
Sara Sutter’s work appears in Fence, Windsor Review, Konundrum Engine, Portland Review and various artisan journals. Her first chapbook, Sirenomelia, was published by Poor Claudia, the chapbook imprint of OCTOPUS books.
You will find more poems here. You may contact the editor at firstname.lastname@example.org.