A poem written by Bozena Intrator for her father.
We will walk together through the meadows…
It was a beautiful summer day,
The air was full of flowers smells.
My father said with a quite voice:
“Next year we will walk together -
hand in hand -
through the meadows by the lake Necko
and breath in beautiful smells of flowers.”
My heart jumped.
The doctors decided not to tell my father
that he has only a little piece of his lungs left
and not more than 2 weeks life.
“Why don’t you have flowers in your hair
like you used to when you lived here?”
asked my father.
“Next year you will pick the flowers for me,
like you used to.”
He took my hand
and I pulled myself together
in order not to let the tears out.
I tried to remember the warmth of his hand forever.
His face looked so young,
like 20 years ago
when I was his little girl.
Doctors say that that happens sometimes -
short before the end -
patients start to look young again.
“And we will take the boat and go fishing,
remember? You were 6 when you caught your first fish.”
I looked in his dark blue eyes,
the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen
and realized that he knows everything.
He is trying to help me
and is asking for help.
“Yes, that was the only fish we caught that day,
you didn’t caught any”
my father smiled back
and pressed my hand tighter:
“I was wrong to tell you what to do,
I think you know the best,
always do, what you feel you need to.”
I told him laughing,
That I needed to get something to drink
and run out fast,
cried outside the clinic
loud and long
wondering why the sky is so shameless blue
why the sun is shining
and nobody is telling me how to let go…