September 2020
Bio Note: It's summer vacation time and I'm remembering the months-long
camping trips we used to take when I was a kid, how these trips were practically the
only times I saw my father not working (though still managing not to relax). He's been
gone for over 30 years now, but he's still very present in my mind.
Dad Says He Has a Job for Me
I ride through date groves
from Indio to Coachella.
In a small office in the corner
of the chemical plant, my spot
is a desk where I type up orders
scrawled by salesmen
who can find surprising ways
to spell DeBonne and Vladimir.
It’s pleasant here; the grownups
crack jokes, play music,
while Dad is in the field.
When his pickup is spied
in the driveway, word goes out
and comes back in like a cold wind.
Backs straighten, conversation
freezes, souls shiver
as we get a read on his mood.
At quitting time we drive home,
Dad and I, my bike in the bed
of the pickup, a handful of words
between us, him singing along
to a country song, squinting
into the sun.
The Nicest Man
Near the end, all his fierceness
is gone. Stroke-softened, trembling
from Parkinson’s, mind veiled
by dementia, this boulder of a man
whose temper terrorized employees
and family alike, spends his days
hunched before the TV watching
M*A*S*H reruns and the Iran-Contra
hearings (I’ve always been a Republican,
but now I’m not so sure, he tells me).
One morning I find the TV tuned to PBS.
Dad! You’re watching Mr. Rogers!
The frightening vehemence back
in his face, he turns to me and growls,
THAT is the NICEST man!
©2020 Tamara Madison
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