I have come to dust Dad’s
room, discover there are flowers on his altar. A vase is jammed with tiger lilies, they
are false. Everywhere, on and beneath the altar, are the accoutrements of a
devotee: Tibetan singing bowl; Buddha bells; gong; essential oils, Roshi and
family photographs tucked here and there. Amongst the tight tangle of silk
leaves and petals in the vase, placed with the precision of a Zen master, a
dried banana peel flowers.
Very moving Barbara.
ReplyDeleteYes. Wonderful. I look forward to your next poem everyday now.
ReplyDeleteI love the banana peel. And now I am struck by the thought that your Dad's whole retreat into dementia, in the ways you describe it, is perhaps very Zen.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your comments, everyone. it's very heartening that the pieces about my father are getting such heartfelt responses.
ReplyDelete