My dad is free now(9 Posts)
Really sorry, Treacle.
My dad died of Parkinson's Disease 18 months ago, and I have to say that it was a relief that he was no longer suffering and incapacitated.
Your poem and the words of Gibran are lovely, and - I hope - true!
I still feel guilty that I felt relief rather than sorrow when dad died, didn't really cry and was glad it was over for him, although I miss him terribly and feel his absence dreadfully, much more than when he first died.
It's a surreal time to feel such a clash of emotions.
Look after yourself and lots of love.
That's a beautiful poem. Sorry that your dad has gone, but glad his suffering is over.
Sorry for your loss. I have found this poem by Julia Darling comforting, hope you do too.
Eventually, I was placed on a bed like a boat
in an empty room with sky filled windows,
with azure blue pillows, the leopard-like quilt.
It was English tea time, with the kind of light
that electrifies the ordinary. It had just stopped raining.
Beads of water on glass glittered like secrets.
In another room they were baking, mulling wine.
I was warm with cloves, melting butter, demerara,
and wearing your pyjamas. My felt slippers
waited on the floor. Then the door opened
soundlessly, and I climbed out of bed.
It was like slipping onto the back of a horse,
and the room folded in, like a pop up story
then the house, and the Vale. Even the songs
and prayers tidied themselves into grooves
and the impossible hospital lay down its chimneys
its sluices, tired doctors, and waiting room chairs.
And I came here. It was easy to leave.
Thinking of you, treacle. And at such a time, to share this beautiful poem with us. Thank you.
And thank you, waterlego. No matter how long ago any bereavement, such words from these poems support, restore, and encourage.
treacle - take the best possible care of yourself - wrap yourself and your family in a cloak of comfort and love.
These are wonderful. My grandad just passed and these help
Thanks waterlego and throckenholt. Waterlego, your quotes are lovely, I'm going to look up the whole of the poem
I'm so sorry for your loss treacle.
That poem is beautiful and provokes such lovely images. It reminded me of some Kahlil Gibran quotes, and I hope you won't mind me sharing them here:
'For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink form the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.'
(From The Prophet)
There is also a lovely poem, The Beauty of Death, whic I won't post in full as it's long, but I particularly like these lines from it:
'I have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the
Firmament of complete and unbound freedom...
...I am cloaked in full whiteness;
I am in comfort; I am in peace.'
I'm glad you are able to think of your Dad as being free now. Sending good wishes your way.
Sorry your dad had to go through so much. At least he is at peace now.
Am a regular but have namechanged for this, because will out me for sure. Dad died yesterday. He'd been suffering for years, becoming more and more ill, with less and less quality of life. By the end he was virtually "locked in", unable to speak, and able to move only his head. He would look intently at us, trying to convey so much with his eyes alone. The pain of watching him like that was awful, and I'd like to share this poem with you, because this is how I think of him now, free at last from all of it.
Dancing the Skies
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung,
Hung in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft tho' footles halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, nor eagle flew -
And while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high, untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
by John Gillespie Magee
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