Relinquenda by Alexandra Regalado

Author:Alexandra Regalado [Regalado, Alexandra Lytton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Beacon Press
Published: 2022-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Portrait of My Father X Days Before Dying

He has been dying for six years. The first cancer took hold in his throat, the tumor like a pit of amber, all the things left unsaid. Those who are of a religious persuasion would say he began dying the day he was born, he will soon be reborn; that tireless circle, fluff he would wave away, all that unseen/unproved business not for his engineer mind. In this life we need to first build, then inhabit, till its use runs out. My father is here in a photograph, exactly as I last saw him: in the leather recliner, his balding head the only thing not swallowed by a puffer jacket, the brick background of the fireplace, the fixture a joke of our Miami childhood home & the two times a year we set a fire: Christmas & New Year’s. But he is cold every second of every day of what is left of his life. He has his eyes closed, swallowing that bite of whatever they’ve served him on that folding side-table where he keeps always within reach the TV remote, lighter & Marlboros, nail clipper & folded stack of paper towels—those he will use to spit out whatever he can’t manage to gnash with his gums. Don’t write of those things my mother will say. You cannot publish any of this until he’s dead, she says. We have been trying to bridge the distance before that happens, but he goes further into silence, deeper into that down jacket. In this photo it is only his profile, stark shadow of cheekbone cut at a knife’s edge, the perfect angle of his nose sloping from his wide forehead & his open mouth, bowing his head down, as if he cannot bear the weight of holding himself up any longer. His mouth open, a sad-eyed giant grouper in an aquarium wishing for the hook & the yank into the crushing sunlight. He balances a fork in his right hand, some unidentifiable morsel he forces himself to fake-eat for our sakes. How I saw him last time, backlit & smoking on the terrace, the silhouette of his curved back & hunched shoulders, already imagining that I’d remember exactly how he pulled on the cigarette like he was at the bottom of the abyss, that pull the deepest inhale, the tightest kiss of his lips, his fine fingers holding the cigarette tight & then the exhale of smoke rising stories above us, more things unsaid. He leaned forward & let out a fine stream of drool, & there was terror & beauty, all perfectly illuminated in his silhouette. I have to describe it in detail, though no one will want to read this, my mother assures. But in the photograph I now hold in my hand, behind my father is my mother’s self-portrait on the mantle, strokes of Chinese ink, her long neck & bobbed hair looking away from my father, towards the window & the backyard

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