He’d rasped for a glass of water.
I turned anxiously towards my mother
Looking puzzled at her errant daughter.
She saw a dying man, a parched throat.
I saw the phlegm, the spit, the germs.
Around his lips the drying white coat.
Compelled to ask, “Which glass to use?”
He saw through me. Through mother’s lies.
Years later, his angry eyes still accuse.
In that moment, both of us had hated me;
He was sick but I had made him untouchable.
Turned all my concern to mere mockery.
Some things, acts you just cannot forgive,
No matter how many months and years pass.
The self-loathing as you constantly relive.
In the meditative silence of the shower,
These ghosts come out to haunt you,
Turn up to exert their ungodly power.
In the silence, you’d do anything rather
Than recall memories of an emotional cripple
Who wounded, most ultimately, her father.