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The Rooms

I remember the rooms,
something about each room

Some had cat meows,
some dog barks,

some silent gazes
and passing remarks

The mother was affectionate
and caring,
gave me books of fairytales;
read them to me,
time and again,
tucked me in,
stroke my hair and my chin

The father was kind
and distant,
with a strong sense of fairness
and equality,
brought home reference books
and encyclopedias,
binoculars, a microscope
and a first TV set,
pored over travel books
at the kitchen table
when he'd come in from the barn,
or listened attentively to the radio news,
not to be disturbed then,
still in working clothes
smelling of cows
in the 1950s,
his warm woollen socks on
under the table,
the wall clock ticking

When Sputnik pierced the autumn sky
of October,
the father had a rare drink
and brought me out
into a field at night,
where we both threw our heads back
and saw the moving star of Lenin pass

I remember the funny smell
of the father's breath

He seemed alien

The father passed at 87,
without strife,
mumbling in his sleep

The mother passed at 95
at an old age home,
intellectually completely clear,
with a witty mind full of jokes
up to the end,
ready to go, clear to go

I saw her two days before

As I left she grabbed my hand
and kissed it;
an only occurrence

She knew,
and I carry that final gesture
of love
with me
through new rooms

It was just age that had aged
around her

Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 33 gånger och applåderad av 2 personer
Publicerad 2022-01-16 10:31

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