This is my entry for the British Haiku Society Haibun Competition. It was either successful (because it was honourably mentioned), or unsuccessful because it didn’t win. It has been mentioned on the website and is in the latest edition of Blithe Spirit, and the final haibun is quoted, so I presume it is now OK for me to reprint it. It is the second haibun I have written, featuring Dad and jigsaws. As some people have written books and plays about such things I suppose two haibun is not excessive, but it does worry me that I go back to old subjects – at what point does it become boring. That’s the reason I’ve generally (but not entirely) avoided COVID – we are all living through it, how many poems do we need?
Falling Into Place
years pass
children become strangers
—his new world
Jigsaws became an important part of our lives. First, as conversations became more difficult, we used them to pass the time. Later we used them to stimulate Dad’s thinking and slow the progress of the condition. Finally we used them to measure his decline. A man who once ran a company struggled with a jigsaw designed for a toddler. My sister bought new ones as they were needed, each with fewer pieces than the one preceding it.
He had been an active and successful man, and thousands of events had formed his life. Gradually they faded away. This frustrated him in the beginning but as he sank into the strange new world of dementia he came to accept it as a comforting place. I was happy to see him become contented. Then, one day, he asked me who I was.
the mirror cracks
a fractured smile
released
When we cleared his room my sister picked up the nine-piece jigsaws and suggested we donate them to the care home. She checked with me.
“You don’t want them, do you?”
“Not yet.” I say.
Really lovely, Simon.
Thank you Clare. 🙂
🙂
I agree, this is beautiful writing, very touching and well done. My mother died in her mid 90s, her last years in the confusion and fog of dementia.
Thank you. Dad was fortunate in that he accomplished the transition without too much trouble. This makes it relatively easy to write about. My mother spent years fighting the slid to dementia and I have still not been able to write about it.
A very touching piece.
Thank you.
I’m with Derrick. Poignant, Quercus. The prose and the poetry beautifully capture the loss and the loving care.
Thank you Laurie.
My daughter is an editor on her college literary journal. They decided last year to not run anything COVID related because it would snowball. They have been quite happy with that decision
Good decision. You could soon end up jammed with Covid poetry if you didn’t do that.
That’s what they were afraid of. And that gets boring really quickly
One or two of the first few I read were OK but after that, as you say, there is nothing new to say.
Tenderly, beautifully, done
Thank you Derrick.