Incubus When they've gone I'll sift through countless albums. My father with immodest Slavic flourish exhibiting his youngest like a prize winning melon. My mother, with laughing Elizabeth Taylor looks suspending a toy like a gleaming fish. Fond photographs. Never taken. When they've gone I'll recall with gratitude leisure forsworn so that I might perform. My father with good humoured resignation ferrying his daughter to debates, dances, plays. My mother with moist eyed enthusiasm stitching tulle for a five minute display. Sentimental memories which never took place. When they've gone I'll summon up conversations. My father with low, mock disappointment sowing gentle advice not planting dissidence. My mother with consoling loyalty patching self esteem with illogical argument Messages of love. Never received. When they've gone I'll howl with remorse, tear out my hair, pound on their coffins with unfettered despair, unload the sorrow humped throughout my life. But I won't cry for what has never been.Joy Reid |