This poetry chapbook is centered on depression in aging adult. My father's
trigger was my mother's passing, he could not lift himself from grieving.....
The poems are
August 2020
Contact Michal
Caregiver
Early morning light woke the rooster’s dawning call -
Looking for my father, I ran outside, climb on top of
the weathered brick wall, scan the vast orange grove;
Father was at the edge of the property picking sweet
lemon from the neighbor's trees, in his hand a bucket
of ripe blackberries he picked from the sandy veranda.
My grandmother Mami took his blue jacket, adorned
with police medals and ribbons, carefully placed it on
the back of his chair, and we all sat around Moroccan
silver trey for early breakfast; I could sense tension,
father spoke with disembodied voice, “Today was my
last day, I will take care of her,” kissed her rosy cheeks.
by Michal Mahgerefteh
Copyright@Michal Mahgerefteh
Enough
Do you remember our family trips to the Red Sea:
on the rocky shore we cracked limpet shells for bait.
We fish for snapper and eel from a huge floating tube…
You felt at ease, happy when the shell bucket was full.
“The past does not make me feel safe,” I softly touched
the lace curtains mother sewed for their 45th anniversary,
her presence lingers in the intricate embroidery softly
glowing with first light, “She liked to hand-stitch.”
My visits weary father. He dislikes talking unless God
is in the conversations… muttering to life during long
Israeli nights. . . the moon, especially bright tonight,
ten-years since mother’s death, is that not enough…
By Michal Mahgerefteh
Copyright@Michal Mahgerefteh
Care
I watch him chop fresh English parsley and cilantro,
prepare spicy sauce to eat with chicken for early dinner.
The pungent herbs aroused hints of memories long forgotten.
A great sadness tightened around father, and it felt like
he welcomed the smothering sensation, like a visit from
an old friend, “I didn’t feel the presence of love in this life.”
I wanted to comfort but the only sound he allowed himself
to hear was the heaviness of his breathing and the sound
the knife makes, cutting through the flesh of organic herbs.
Avoiding eye contact, father knew that life would never
be the same after mother’s passing: cook for himself, shop
for food and clothes, pay bills, take control over his health.
But he didn’t care: unopened mail on the kitchen table
with dirty dishes, spoiled food in the refrigerator, unwashed
clothes piled in the hallway, bathroom smelled like urine…
Irregular use of insulin caused father depression and rage
engaging in bickering that turned onto monologues. Nobody
cares because you don’t… Father, you simply don’t care.
by Michal Mahgerefteh
Copyright@Michal Mahgerefteh
Isolation
This dining room was the busiest area in my parents’ home,
fresh food prepared daily in case visitors stop by after work;
“The hungry and curious taking advantage of her weakness,”
father complained about mother who needed the company
especially after intense chemo and radiation treatments.
I sneak a look at father, solid like iron, I avert my eyes
to the entry door; ceramic garlic and metal horseshoe charms
fixed around the frame, “Close to thirty-years keeping Jinn
spirits from our bodies,” he said. They didn’t help her, I said,
cultural superstition bullshit…I expect more from you father.
The pain of knowing how unnoticed he was as a caregiver
drew him to the unseen God, dominating his thoughts, not
people; complaining about the dirty condition of his house,
personal hygiene, eating habits. “I don’t open the door…”
by Michal Mahgerefteh
Copyright@Michal Mahgerefteh