Leaving Home

Your son stands in the doorway,
clutching a suitcase.
You remember him at 8 years old
with a small bag
and plans to sleep overnight
at a friend's.

There was so much
you were going to teach him.
How to handle a girl's rejection.
How to snap a curveball.

I'll call you, he says, throwing his suitcase
into the taxi's trunk.

Call! you shout as his taxi
swings off, his hand waving
from the rear window.

It takes all your will not
to lift your cell phone to your ear.
You stare at it
as if you were x-raying
luggage at the airport.

It has been four hours
and he has yet

to call.

© Bob Bradshaw 07

Alzheimer's
 

I close the blinds, darken the house.
Suddenly Dad stands, as if
remembering an appointment.

He rushes out of the house
as if a taxi had pulled to the curb
to take him to the airport.

Sometimes I pull up next to him on a road.
Dad, do you want a ride home?

Who are you? he asks.

Will I find myself one day
wandering south?

When I misplace a pair of scissors
or forget to lower the heat
on a burner, will the sun,

filling a frame of glass
in the kitchen, be pulling me
one day closer to Florida?

Will language become a white noise?

Will my children become strangers
tugging at me? Will my husband
become a nurse serving meds on a tray?

Where will I turn when everyone
is a stranger? What
will I do, but try to find a road

to lead me safely home?

© Bob Bradshaw 07 

Your Mother's Hair
 

You loved your mother's hair.
As a child you trailed her
through the markets,
her braided hair a thick vine
that fell to her waist.

She left one day, to visit the temple.
She left behind her fine comb.

Nothing prepared you to see her
stride through the door
a week later

as bald as a tortoise.

She laughed. "Don't
you recognize me?
I gave my hair to Vishnu,
a small thankyou
for your new brother.

Not a bad exchange?"

You nodded. "Here,"
she said, bending
at the waist. "Rub
your hand over my head,

it will bring you
good luck." Where
is your hair? you asked. "Bathing,"
she said, "in a warm
bucket of water."

For days you brooded,
thinking of her hair
soaking in sudsy water,
waiting to be dried

and sold to a stranger.

Years later you still imagine
a survivor of cancer, a woman
in her thirties,

sitting before a mirror,
feeling beautiful again
as she combs yards
of your mother's

hair

© Bob Bradshaw 07

---

 

Bob is a programmer living in Redwood City, CA. He is a big fan of the Rolling Stones. Recent and forthcoming work of his can be found at Blue Fifth Review, Eclectica, Apple Valley Review, Tattoo Highway, Slow Trains and Boston Literary Magazine.

Email: bobbybradshw@yahoo.com

         

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