My Brother Returned to His Own Family Before My Father Died. Work Was Waiting, His Kids and Wife Were Waiting, And Maybe My Dad Was Waiting. I Could Stick Around, Though, And Wait Him Out. The Day Before His Death, I Took On Raking Their Large Yards. He Was Wheeled Outside For A Smoke Which Would Dangle From His Dry Mouth. He Seemed Appreciative. By Late Afternoon He Had The Nurse Call Me Back Inside. I and Him Were Together, Me Kneeling Next To Him — Sofa-Side. We Made Amends, Embraced, And Held Hands. Early The Next Morning He Died. I Would Have Liked To Have Been There At That Moment — During His Exit. Not Sure If He Preferred I Wasn’t Present, Or If She Preferred To Be Alone With Him, For They Had A Much Richer History Together Than I. I Preferred To Not Know And To Just Believe He Did Want Me There But Passed Without Warning. A Couple More Days I Stayed, Doing What I Could Around The House, Making Small Talk, Looking Off Into the Distance, Being Quiet — TV And Music Were Unbearable. I Must Have Raked Up More Than Twenty Bags Of Leaves., found plywood, xerox transfers, professional student-grade acrylic paint. Size: M. 1989.

3/4 viewpoint pleasure

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