Dorty Nowak
Nut Brown Red
They moved through the rooms
of my childhood, two magnets
that repelled. Once
they must have attracted
one another. I’m proof of that.
She, whose hair sparked
red in the sunlight. He, a black-eyed
leading man, who shot
thunderbolts from his silences.
I don’t know what drove them
apart, perhaps boredom,
or a betrayal, unspoken.
They slept in separate rooms.
She went to bed early, he late.
But they kept up appearances,
dined with friends, she in strappy heels,
lips always painted her favorite shade,
Nut Brown Red. My hunger
drove me to Anna’s house,
where we laughed and tumbled on
her parents’ bed, where
dinners weren’t spiced with anger.
When I was 40, I came to see my mother.
Cancer had burned her fiery hair to ash.
But for me, she put on
her game face. After she died,
my father kept her picture
by his bed. Each week he
brought flowers to her grave. Always
roses, always darkest red.
Half-Way There
How could you? My father
turned to me, his voice
a dagger. A sign by the gate,
gold letters on black,
welcomed us to Meadowlark.
Mute before him, I am again
the chastised child. His face wavers
against a blur of black and glitter.
Why now a rent in dementia’s veil—
clarity to be celebrated any other time?
Was it the lie I told him? His destination
described as if it were a spa?
Or the unexpected betrayal
by a daughter, who unlike his sons,
never gave him trouble.
Midway to Kansas, I stopped
to shop for snacks, keeping
an eye on the door. He joined me
at the checkout, empty-handed.
Daddy, what’s in your pockets?
Smiling like Santa opening his sack
he pulled out gum, a rhinestone
barrette, a small stuffed bear.
You can keep one. He chose
the bear.
My brothers had gone before
to ready his room—by the window,
his chair with the rump-sprung seat,
on one wall pictures of my mother,
the three of us when we were small.
Sunlight burnished the scarred bookcase
where he’d kept his current loves.
As children we marveled how he could
reach for a book, rifle the pages, find
the right words every time.
Alone, I cried my way home.
My father later told my uncle he
was grateful I’d done this for him—
I was the only child who could.