A phone call - an update, reassurance - we both feel uneasy.
He comes home from the psych ward today.
The docs will pack him into an Uber
and send him ‘home’.
A home that’s emptied of wife and child
Who have fled to safety of their own
Leaving Dad and sister to fend with
this other him.
Uneasy after changing the locks.
Uneasy after calls for protective order
Uneasy after screwdriver sunk into the electrical fuse box in the basement
to keep the carbon monoxide out of his head
and electricity off.
Uneasy after the shattered doorway opened by force
and physical threats to both father and sister
and tenant above.
Uneasy.
Ten days away and their world has changed
Into open wounds of adversity and uncertainty and no reassurance.
He’s fine, they say.
On meds and understanding his state of mind, they say.
“He’s playing you,” his wife contends.
Too late for reason; he’s out the door.
Seventy-eight years old and waiting
for furious storm to hit this afternoon.
He’s hoping his son moves out as promised.
Heartbroken.
“Observe his eyes and movements,” I say
Drumming into him what he already knows.
There’s no way to reach him.
Either one.
“You’re not as strong as you once were,
Now he’s got you outweighed.”
“I know,” he says, and silence falls.
I hope 911 won’t be too late.
Uneasy, he and me on the phone.
There’s nothing more I can say.
In the end, each walks alone.
For better or worse, we’ll wait out the day.
Uneasy.
(c) 2021 by Iris B. Struller