When my dad came home

 Dear Reader,

I have had a chest infection, antibiotics which I very badly reacted to and a feeling of burning in my hands.  All very unpleasant.  I saw that Queen Camilla had had a chest infection and that she thought it was not easy to get rid of.  No it certainly isn't.  My cough lingers on and as soon as I think it has gone it comes back.  

I have been very interested in the Assisted Dying Bill.  I will not be having a good death at all.  One quarter of my lung has gone with lung cancer operation, and this does not spell well for breathing or anything else.  So I was thrilled that perhaps we will get the go ahead for choice in how we die.  Surely that is the right thing to do, give us the choice.

I am sorry that this has been such a dreary post, I will make amends next week I hope.

 

 

 

 

So just the poem this week:                                                                              *

 

When my dad came home

 he nodded off

in the old armchair,

any time,

forgot everything,

could name no names.

 

Tobacco smoke from woodbines

filled the house,

he drank malt whisky,

came home unsteadily from the pub.

 

He talked of cricket, he whistled

and hummed old country and western songs,

rocked in the rocking chair

and potted up red geraniums.

 

He ate junket and white fish

had headaches,

and he wept sometimes.

 

But we were good friends, my dad and I,

night times he told me stories,

and tucked me into bed.

I never asked him about the war,

and he never said.

 

                                                                                  *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia