unread mysteries all of us
by Elouise
unread mysteries all of us,
tantalizing and elusive
Several days ago I read a beautiful, evocative poem on Kabir Gandhiok’s blog site, Everyday Zen. His poem, “The Man I Thought I Knew,” is about his grandfather.
The poem resonated with feelings I have about my father. The image of unread mystery stories came to mind. I have more than a few sitting on the bookshelves in my house, waiting to be read.
My father is one such mystery. I thought I knew him. Yet the more I discover about myself, the less I feel I know him–though I own him as my father and feel sad about his life.
When he was in his mid-90s, going through a long and difficult process of dying, he told me more than once that he was going to live to be 100. He was then 95. He died just months short of 97.
I asked him why this was so important to him. He looked at me, cocked his head a bit and got that familiar semi-embarrassed look on his face. His response shocked me: “I want to live to be 100 years old so my daughters have something to be proud of about me.”
He was deadly serious. I was stunned. What to say? How to act? I didn’t have a clue.
One day, when he was in the hospice facility (for the third time), some new visitors came to see him. They introduced themselves and were obviously at ease with this elderly man who sometimes made sense and sometimes didn’t.
Among other things, they asked him how old he was. He said in a clear strong voice, “I’m 100 years old!” I gulped and said nothing. He obviously believed this. I think they did, too.
A few days later a new male visitor came by with a beautiful dog for my father to meet. He asked Dad how old he was (my father always looked at least 10 years younger than his true age). This time Dad pulled himself up and proudly announced he was 103 years old!
I just chuckled to myself. As I said above, I will never plumb the depths of my father’s mystery. He, like me, is one of a kind.
Here are a few semi-poetic thoughts about my wish to know my father, in mystery book fashion.
Books wait patiently. Life does not.
Time doesn’t offer the option of going backward
To decipher real-life mysteries
I’m dying to read.
I long to discover more of my father
than I know.
An unread mystery
tantalizing and elusive.
I glimpse indirect hints
Memories and clues dance in my rear-view mirror
maddeningly elusive
Here one moment gone the next.
Why that slant of the head?
that look in the eyes? that furrowed brow?
Was he looking at me, beyond me, away from me?
Or at himself with such intensity and shame
that he never even saw me?
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 28 November 2015
Your father must have been a remarkable man, I’m sure. This was a beautiful poem in his memory, warm and thought provoking. Thank you for sharing it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re welcome, Kabir. He was a complex man. I loved him, and he didn’t know how to deal with me. I wasn’t what he expected or wanted in a daughter. Thanks for your kind comment–and for getting me thinking about this again.
Elouise
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’re most welcome, Elouise. I can imagine how that must be like, my grandfather was never there or even kind to his two daughters until the day his memory started fading. Thanks again for sharing your poem and have a good day! My best to you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
How sad that it took his memory starting to fade….
My best to you as well.
LikeLiked by 1 person
1. “so my daughters have something to be proud of about me.” This is old man talk for “I am not proud of the way I have treated you and I am trying to say I’m sorry but I haven’t practised those lines often enough so I don’t know how to say it.
2. If you haven’t read it make sure you read “Tuesdays with Morrie”
3. “I’m 100 years old!” That’s when you should have said, “Daddy, I am so proud of you for getting to 100.”
LikeLiked by 2 people
Your #1 is probably right on target–even though you think you don’t know how to say them properly!
As for #2, I’ve read “Tuesdays with Morrie” at least 2 if not 3 times, and I’ve watched the movie. My sister Diane who died of ALS told me about it. I wept my way through every time. I never, however, read it with my father in mind. Maybe it’s time to pull it off my bookshelf and take another look. Thanks for the suggestion.
And now for #3. Hmmm. Even though I’m allergic to ‘should haves,’ I think you’re right about that one, too. As I recall, on one of those occasions my youngest sister was in the room with us and we joked with him afterwards. We did not, however, say we were proud of him for getting to l00, much less l03! Nor did we try to talk him out of it. It made him happy to say that. Nevertheless, I like your suggested response. Maybe I’ll find a way to tell him that one of these days.
Thanks, John!
Elouise
LikeLike
Dear Elouise, hi cous, just a note to say thank you for your post today. We’re going through a hard time (story on Pray for Hope if you haven’t read it). Why are men so private with their feelings (or is it just Renich men?) and maybe even condemning of those of us who wear our emotions on our shirt sleeves. Maybe an unanswerable question, but thought I’d ask.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Dear Jane,
You’re welcome! I wish I knew the answer to your Why question about men. Men in my life who were willing to show their emotions on their shirt sleeves have been few and far between. I admire them. I also note that men are sometimes uncomfortable when I bring my feelings with me. I think it’s a great question–especially about Renich men, given the family’s history. I’m guessing many men find emotions dangerous. It may mean they’re out of control, or afraid the dam will burst. Or perhaps they don’t feel their feelings? Or they think about things instead, and try to reason them out without emotional awareness? Now I’m grasping at straws….Bottom line: I don’t know.
I’ll email you about Hope and make sure I’ve read all the updates.
It’s so good to hear from you. 🙂
Elouise
LikeLike
Reblogged this on Telling the Truth and commented:
In honor of my father who died in 2010, and was born on this date in 1913–103 years ago. I’d forgotten about this poem. I wouldn’t change one word of it today.
LikeLike