EXTREME UNCTION
Photo from Unsplash.
Calling the priest, soft and white as meringue,
to my father’s room, I asked for only a blessing
explaining, who knows, maybe the nuns
had baptized him at the orphanage
but he never went to church.
I remember a white cassock and the muted
tap of wood rosary beads, but maybe not.
As if not hearing me—or hearing me—
the priest reached one plump hand over the bed
By this holy unction and his own most
gracious mercy, may the Lord pardon
my father, holding my hand, his eyes on mine,
same as the day I was born.
When the priest finished,
with what strength the dying have
my father raised my hand in his and said,
“Behave!” his parting blessing.
When he died, the proprietress set a candle
by the bed where I sat 2 hours
as grief laid down its sickening pall
displacing relatedness with memory,
father and daughter cascading
the way flower petals fade and fall
and still finitude did not seem
unreasonable in the strange peace
of the ever-bluing room
the candle flame flickering
in little gasps of joy
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