by Maree Reedman
I had no idea my father
was a celebrity
until we went on a cruise.
Strangers stopped me
to ask, How is George?
Dad grinned from his walker,
gave a royal wave.
At the nursing home,
staff patted him as they glided by.
You are so lucky to have a father like George.
His old neighbours
took him to a café every Saturday
and when his bank manager
learnt of his death
she came out from behind the counter,
sat next to me and cried.
Years ago I listened for his footsteps on the stairs
I waited for him to enter my sickroom,
but he never did.
I searched for him,
only finding shadows in his shed,
his army green radio on the window sill
and the carboy
gasping like a fish
caught in the silence.
