"Eighty" by Mary Soon Lee, Frequent Contributor

Eighty

Mary Soon Lee

Tomorrow he would have been eighty.

I see him driving round Europe

with a woman who is not my mother,

stopping at a restaurant

overlooking Lake Como,

bowing his head in thanks to waiters

who bring him Coca Colas,

a camera or two on the table

in front of him.

Tomorrow he would have been eighty.

He would have chased his grandchildren

round our back yard,

telling them to climb higher,

jump further;

he would have played on the floor with them

the same games he played with me,

acting the part of Spottyfellow,

the huge old ladybug

that I still have,

faded and coming apart a little,

as he would be too.

Tomorrow he would have been eighty,

still playing poker,

still betting the pot

on the right hand;

he would have left notes on my fridge

in his beautiful flowing handwriting;

he would have left messages

on my answering machine;

he would have learned

how to email me;

he would have burnt 

the eighty candles on his cake

from both ends.

Poet's Notes: This is a poem about my father, Dr. Lee Wee Chye, who died at the age of fifty-two (when I was twenty). He was far from a perfect man, but he was close to being a perfect father. I wish he had met his grandchildren.