Dad Says His Gravestone Will Say He Did What He Had to Do
He hates seeing other people’s
vacation photos. Cobblestones,
small plates, good for them.
If their luggage was lost
for three days or they got sick
from street vendors then good.
He’s trying to get to the beach
but the wheelchair won’t fit
in the trunk.
Let the Mustang run her engine
from time to time, he says he doesn’t
want to feel his hip when he runs.
You know, he hopes they aren’t going
to the hospital again. Before the icy
commute he used a hair dryer on the pipes
made sure they didn’t freeze. Mom
thawed dinner when she could still stand
long enough to open the door.
Now every day he’s up at four to check
her CPAP machine; needing sleep less
than needing worry.
He doesn’t want to deal with a barbeque
so he doesn’t grow tomatoes anymore.
Leaves the piano open, plays Celluloid Heroes
after the closing bell, sometimes he thinks
about digging through boxes in the garage
to bring the old accordion out,
hang grandpa’s wedding photo on the wall.
He’s been calling all afternoon.
I put the knife down.
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Charlotte Maiorana is an American-Italian writer and mother of two young boys. She is a current MFA student at Randolph College and lives in her hometown of Staten Island, New York. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Thrush Poetry Journal, Querencia Press, The Rumen, and elsewhere. You can find her at charlottemaiorana.substack.com and @charlotteccm on Instagram.