I arrange my shirts on the empty hangers
in my mother’s side of the wardrobe.
The rail is a flange at the front of the shelf,
not a rod below it. I wonder if this
is a New Zealand thing. I drag shut
the wardrobe’s bifold doors, scraping
the carpet. Above them, there’s a gap.
That must let in dust, I mutter.
I unpack the favourite books I lugged
across the Tasman, set them up
on the shelf where my father kept
the stereo he bought after my mother died
and he really needed good sound.
The stereo’s gone to his rest home1 room
with the other things his friends
(thank God for them!) decided he’d want:
the TV, some of his clothes, a few
of the photos and knick-knacks.
Since the call—Your dad’s in hospital …
helicopter … a stroke … we thought he was dead—
it’s taken me three months to get here.
A doctor’s letter to prove
compassionate reasons. Permission
to leave Australia. A visa. Flights to ghostly
international terminals. A fortnight’s
isolation in Auckland. Three buses north …
I sluice out the jug, boil it,
rinse a cup, find a teabag, sit
at the white plastic outdoor table
in the little living room,
make a list. Bread, salad, muesli,
oat milk, a tin of beans.
Nothing that has to be cooked—
not until I’ve scrubbed the pans.
In the carport, I gingerly start
my father’s new red Swift,
with its crouched-cat shape
and high-winged name,
slowly back it out
of the awkward driveway.
I muff the hill start twice—
two stalls on the slippery gravel—
but eventually
I get going,
get up to speed
April 2021
First published in Tarot
- The New Zealand term for a nursing home ↩︎
