POETRY: 'The Final Procrastination' by George Abraham

The Final Procrastination
By George Abraham

I remember the white linen
Coating the altar’s edge
At my 8th grade confirmation-
            He remembers black linen
            Covering the faces of Israelites
            Forcing him, a child, out of his home.
I remember the catechist’s cold stare
As she told us that confirmation made it official-
We were choosing to be Catholics.
            He remembers the intruder’s cold stare
            Infused with the hatred of Arabs,
            Especially Catholic Arabs.
I remember ashes bestowed on my forehead
In the symbol of the cross-
Those Ash Wednesday masses I was dragged to.
            He remembers ashes-
            The remnants of his once-called home
            Destroyed for the cross his family bore.

I became an academic, through and through,
After confirmation-
A devout student; an intellectual.
            He became the opposite-
            He laughed at literature
            And its attempt to portray disaster.
I grew to be a critic-
To see the flaws in our country,
And proclaim my thoughts through words-
            He grew to love America-
            The land of opportunity; for home, to him,
            Became dusk to a once sunny day.
I grew to desire escape-
To loathe repetition, and yearn for
My way out of home.
            He clung to home’s once tangible existence-
            The rubble that once was wall,
            The ash that once was a bible page.

My 12-year old vision sees him
As a loving grandfather;
A witty man who didn’t quite know English,
But made the most out of what he knew-
I could still go to ball games with him.
            My 18-year old vision sees him
            As a fallen hero;
            His limping stride, his stuttered speech,
            His head bruised from a fall-
            His wit still remained.

I’ve been plagued by the thought that I may lose him
Soon-
But he lives his daily life fearlessly;
For, he knows he will be with the angels
Soon;
Him, among the choir of heavenly souls
Cloaked in white linen.
            I will remain a sly, angry poet
            Contemplating the nature of forever-
            Not truly understanding God,
            But remaining intrigued all the while.
                        Still believing, but not living-and-breathing.

He always seeked to know God
            Where I always sat back and contemplated;
            Eventually, I may come across the day
            Where I will have my heavenly insight;
            Maybe it will be on my death bed,
            With me all cloaked in black;
            Perhaps it may be even too late
            And I’ll die never fully understanding God,
    But then again, no one TRULY understands God...

But that’s the difference between him and me-

I’ll procrastinate.
He never did.

Copyright 2013| George Abraham