Margaret MacInnis
At Last
What if my father had not died that day in our kitchen; what if instead he hesitated, what
if his hand trembled and the single shot to his temple had been less precise. Thirty years
later I still wonder what if he hadn’t died; what if instead he lies in a bed in a private
room at St. Camillus Hospital for the Terminally Ill, where I visit him every day.
Paralyzed from the gun shot, confined to his bed, he has to let me hold the straw to his
lips. He has to let me feed him his dinner. After the girl, a volunteer, wheels the tray in, I
lift the cover, and say, Look, Daddy. Night after night in the dim jaundiced glow of St.
Camillus his eyes rest on me. He cannot speak. But he can listen. Sometimes I think I’ve
got him where I want him: Yes, at last he is mine. And every night when the girl pops her
head in the door, says my name, says I’m sorry, but it’s time, I know I have to go, I know
he has to let me.
Provincetown in the Fall: at Clapp's Pond
I am alive and my father is not. I hear him in the plane taking off. I smell him in the
rotting leaves. The current flows too fast to catch. I sink into soft mud, the way I did back
then, crouching, watching tadpoles wriggle free from one another. One red stem on a
dried out branch, one red leaf. Its center fades to yellow and darkens to brown, a flame. A
spot of black, a cigarette burn to remind me I can feel. You don’t have to love me. I have
not wasted my life. Pond water is holy. I baptize myself. Let the leaves rot, the cigarette
burn the soft part of my wrist. I will be the single red leaf, the living branch. No matter
what the voices say I will not fill my pockets and wade into the deep part of the pond. I
smell my girlhood in the breeze, in my hair, in the pond water and pine, and your
cigarette, a boot print in the sand, the promise of resurrection. I believe, I believe.
Margaret MacInnis lives and writes in Iowa City. Her essays, stories, and poems have appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Brevity, Crab Orchard Review, Colorado Review, DIAGRAM, Gettysburg Review, Gulf Coast Review, Massachusetts Review, Mid-American Review, River Teeth, Tampa Review and elsewhere. Her work has received notable distinction in Best American Essays 2007, 2009, and 2011 and Best American Non-Required Reading 2009. Since 2010, MacInnis has worked as personal assistant to Marilynne Robinson.
Return to September 2021 Edition
What if my father had not died that day in our kitchen; what if instead he hesitated, what
if his hand trembled and the single shot to his temple had been less precise. Thirty years
later I still wonder what if he hadn’t died; what if instead he lies in a bed in a private
room at St. Camillus Hospital for the Terminally Ill, where I visit him every day.
Paralyzed from the gun shot, confined to his bed, he has to let me hold the straw to his
lips. He has to let me feed him his dinner. After the girl, a volunteer, wheels the tray in, I
lift the cover, and say, Look, Daddy. Night after night in the dim jaundiced glow of St.
Camillus his eyes rest on me. He cannot speak. But he can listen. Sometimes I think I’ve
got him where I want him: Yes, at last he is mine. And every night when the girl pops her
head in the door, says my name, says I’m sorry, but it’s time, I know I have to go, I know
he has to let me.
Provincetown in the Fall: at Clapp's Pond
I am alive and my father is not. I hear him in the plane taking off. I smell him in the
rotting leaves. The current flows too fast to catch. I sink into soft mud, the way I did back
then, crouching, watching tadpoles wriggle free from one another. One red stem on a
dried out branch, one red leaf. Its center fades to yellow and darkens to brown, a flame. A
spot of black, a cigarette burn to remind me I can feel. You don’t have to love me. I have
not wasted my life. Pond water is holy. I baptize myself. Let the leaves rot, the cigarette
burn the soft part of my wrist. I will be the single red leaf, the living branch. No matter
what the voices say I will not fill my pockets and wade into the deep part of the pond. I
smell my girlhood in the breeze, in my hair, in the pond water and pine, and your
cigarette, a boot print in the sand, the promise of resurrection. I believe, I believe.
Margaret MacInnis lives and writes in Iowa City. Her essays, stories, and poems have appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Brevity, Crab Orchard Review, Colorado Review, DIAGRAM, Gettysburg Review, Gulf Coast Review, Massachusetts Review, Mid-American Review, River Teeth, Tampa Review and elsewhere. Her work has received notable distinction in Best American Essays 2007, 2009, and 2011 and Best American Non-Required Reading 2009. Since 2010, MacInnis has worked as personal assistant to Marilynne Robinson.
Return to September 2021 Edition