Richard stimac
Highland
No longer a young man,
I go east from the Gateway Arch,
that monstrous portal to the West,
a monument to destruction and glory,
empire and enslavement, to all the good
and bad my country offers. To me,
the prairie has a sacredness,
the unadorned vistas of the sky
remind me of gods: Zeus,
Azman, even Yahweh, on high.
I’ve come to visit my father,
in a nursing home, in Highland,
with its shuttered church
organ company, microbrewery
on the square, coffee shops, and more.
Highland, where my earthly father
has come to slowly die, dissolve,
like morning mist. Each time I visit,
less and less of him is there,
in Highland, Illinois.
I wonder at him, that he even lived.
I know his haunts: the alleys
behind the mill; the linoleum halls
of a now-demolished grade school;
a photo of him, shirtless, in Vietnam.
And now this. His teeth fall out.
He wants me to sue the home.
He tells me the same war stories.
I smile. He’s not happy, but
content, which may be the same.
We don’t hug goodbye. Haven’t
in decades ever touched. He says,
“Take care.” I nod. “You, too.”
I watch Highland fade in my mirrors.
I want to cry, to feel the loss.
Rain begins. Heaven cries for me.