When Dad was still alive
When Dad was still alive,
Dilma was still President,
Trump hadn’t been elected,
time hadn’t been suspended.
But the wave was swelling:
Brexit had stolen our breath;
Dad on his hospital screen
watched Turkey turning to shreds;
and fake news, insane shooters
burst out of their hiding spots
while thousands banged their anger
on right-wing slogans and pots.
When Dad was still alive,
The plague was but a twinkle
in the universe’s eye,
and we gathered and waited
and hoped against all odds
Dad’s exit would not arrive,
as lights went out one by one,
as tenuous threads dissolved,
as old resentments surfaced,
as the room turned icy cold;
we pretended not to know
he was what connected us.
Now we’re each in our caves;
he visits me with warnings
and once even an embrace
in my dreams as I wonder
if he’d bear to grow older,
if he could’ve talked some sense
into our wayward voters,
if he’d stand to stick around
for all the funerals
while calling out the posers,
if he’d stay in the trenches
even when it was hopeless,
and patch our gaps with dessert,
drown our fears in beer mugs –
“Nothing like a good shuteye,”
when Dad was still alive.
Ana Beatriz Ribeiro, 26/01/2021
