The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Sandra Staas WATER COLOUR BEFORE CREMATION Glasgow, 1964 Frozen father beneath scars, polished wood, clasped hands. His paintings and books lie on the mantel piece, pages fluttering as Auntie Madge plays the piano, her long slim fingers trembling, her lips tight. The clan gathers. Old friends arrive, the men's bunnets in their hands, even cousins twice removed turn up at our house to say a last farewell, to say they're awfy sorry and how awful for him to die so young. Yet street lights flicker on the walls as lovers giggle by and Mrs. McFadden hastens to buy a large meat pie, whilst the tea pot simmers. The fog horns from the ships on the Clyde bellow mournful laments. Just another day. "If you kiss him, it'll help you get over his death." A gentle tug pulls me to the coffin. He had never wanted affection, never even offered it, so why start now? "Gie us a smile, hen. Aye. Ye'll remember this day for the rest of yer life. Make it a good wan. Huv a wee nip of whiskey, if ye like." I ignore the offer, trying hard not to scowl, then take the water colour brush from its container. I lean over my father to caress his face with the soft bristles, painting away the injustice, the anger. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |