The Day My Father Died

The Day My Father Died

A mockingbird sang from the branches
of the ficus tree outside the bedroom window
the same ficus tree he always wanted
to chop down and dig out
because he said its roots were cracking
the foundation of the stucco house my parents shared
since before I was born
but my mother begged him not to and I know
she wished it was her bluebird
out in the tree that day –
she called it her bluebird because it was blue
and a bird even though it was really a jay –
but it was the mockingbird
who sang a gentle, mournful song
with the women in my father's life –
his wife of fifty-three years
his daughters and a granddaughter
his faithful Siamese cat who slept at his feet
my yellow Lab – all of that
female energy keeping vigil
except for the cat who slept
as if this were the most natural thing
his chest rising and falling
tormented by every breath
the spaces between them lengthening
until finally even she left her perch
as if, after all, she couldn't bear it,
and went to the other room
but the mockingbird stayed and sang.

I didn't really care for mockingbirds
until the day my father died.



The prompt for this poem was to write one long sentence, with free verse line breaks, as an exercise in "stream of consciousness" type poetry. So I'll not be adding additional punctuation to it, as that was not the form I was using when I wrote it.