Missing Father

This morning being too wintry
for a walk, I think of my father,
trudging to the bus stop at dawn in all
weathers, to juggle numbers on paper
across the George Washington Bridge.

My twin sister and I
would toddle to the front door,
our pajamas hanging on us
like wilted petunias, snorting
back our tears, wailing,
Where’s Daddy?
Mom would explain patiently
in her fifties housewife voice
that he was going out to make nickels.

We longed for his deep voice rising
from the worn pages of Beatrix Potter.
In the long Jersey evenings,
sitting by his side on the sofa,
immersed in the familiar tales,
we would chant with him the names
of the four bunnies: Flopsy, Mopsy,
Cottontail and Peter.

He was strong and steady
in those days, before Parkinson’s
felled him in a slow death.
All I wanted, searching for
nursing homes close and affordable,
was a day when the only problem
was a carrot missing from
Mister McGregor’s garden.

Donna Pucciani, a Chicago-based writer, has published poetry worldwide in Shi Chao Poetry, Poetry Salzburg, Li Poetry, ParisLitUp, Gradiva, Agenda, and other journals. Her seventh and latest book of poetry is EDGES. Read more of Donna here.

This poem first appeared in JAMA (Journals of the American Medical Association).