There was an arsonist running amok in my small rural hometown of Hobe Sound FL during the first half of 1969. Many acres of woodlands and modest homes were consumed in his wrath. Lawn sprinklers were placed atop flat, tar papered rooftops to protect against floating embers from spreading the devastation. My grandparents 50th wedding celebration was interrupted when a large brush fire was started a scant hundred yards behind my uncle's house.
One afternoon, a fire was started in the woods across the street from my elementary school. The fire chief locked down the school with all of us in it. I will never forget my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs Kinser, hugging me as I sat at my desk in the middle of class as I cried in terror. When we were finally allowed to make our ways home, we had to walk on the ditch side of the street, past a wall of fire trucks and the men battling a massive blaze consuming acres of pine trees and deep old forest.
As I write this, I can't ever recall being as scared as I was that day.
My father was 90 miles south in Miami at his new job. It would be several months before my mother and I would join him to live beneath the same roof, reforming our family of sorts once again. Until then, I would dread the fires during my waking hours and suffer night terrors in my sleep. I would watch my mother and my grandparents, who lived next door, grieve the impending separation of us moving away from our very small town and close family to the bustling, corrupted metropolis of Miami FL, USA. Those were some of the most painful days of my small life.
We finally moved to the rental house to join my father. He would frequently take business trips for days on end. One weekend, as we often did, we went back to spend a day of so in the old house that still hadn't sold and visit with the family members that still hadn't healed from our separation. After dinner, my father announced that he would be leaving on another business trip and would be gone very early the next morning.
I took my 8 year old self to bed and began to quietly (or so I thought) cry. My Mom opened the door and asked me 'What's wrong?' I replied, 'I need my daddy'. She walked out and I heard her say 'He needs to talk to you'. He came in and asked why I was crying. I said, 'I need my daddy'. He said 'But I have to go away sometimes, it's my job. I have to make money to support you and Mom'. 'I don't care how much money you make' I said, 'I need my dad'.
'But Max, it's my job'.
'Then go ahead and leave'
The next morning, he was gone and I never forgave him.
Nine years later, I came home from my job to find him face down on the floor in his bedroom in the throes of a massive stroke centered in his brain stem from which he would never recover. He was to be blind and mostly paralyzed for the rest of his days.
The doctors in the ER said that I saved his life. Late that same night, April 25, 1980, his brother, my uncle David told me how proud he was of me for behaving as I did under such circumstances and saving his brother's life. At that moment, I was in too much shock to even speak. I just dropped the phone on the kitchen counter and went back to sit on the sofa and stare at the carpet.
When Dad eventually regained a fraction of his speech and a very few coarse motor skills, he cursed me from his bed for keeping him conscious by slapping his face and yelling for him to wake up while waiting for the paramedics to arrive.
But he first woke from his coma and a nurse asked him 'Mr Grimm, do you know where you are?'
'In a hospital.'
'Do you know how you got here?'
'My son hit me. We don't get along.'
Many months later, he eventually came home. After an especially bad night, while sitting precariously on the edge of his bed he lashed out at me and said 'You should have let me die goddamnit. I Hate You.'
I responded, 'I'm sorry you feel that way because I Love You.'
There was a very long silence. I think the old brass balled son of a bitch almost cried.
Then.........'Jesus Christ, Max..... I'm glad you say things like that..... Good night'.
'Me too..... Good night, Dad'
I have no eloquent transition from the narrative to the poetic, except to say that, if you love them, there is no greater gift to give them but you.
Every night
I would wait
for the vanishing man
to appear at my door
to chase the vampires away
clenching a sword
ravenous for battle
A vicarious shutter
rattled through my tiny frame
as I projected my warrior
aloft upon air
gleaming steel blinding the adversaries
blood of the vilest sort
spilled in a victorious rainbow
an artwork of proportion
beyond scope and measure
crystalizing the essence
of glory and true self
a reflection of the promise
from which we were rendered.
The older I grew
the less did he vanish
because he gradually ceased to materialize.
Within my small skeleton
a rupture appeared
a crack turning to a fissure
destined to become a valley
a canyon
an atom
split deep in my heart
bitter constructions
were implanted hermetically
forever to endure
no matter the kindness
bestowed upon me
Never more at home
do I feel
than in the cemetery at midnight
cold winds and dampness
enveloping my coat
I leave offerings
upon the tombs
of the liberated
wanting with excess desire
the day I will come ready
to leave this place
of endless night
Until then
I wait for the vanishing man
to appear in my dreams
save me from myself
cleansing from my head
the virus implanted
by his disappearance
I pleaded and cried
to his deafness
he thus was struck blind
set adrift
on a pillow of ignorance
I shall wait for his return
in lieu of suicide
my avenger, my savior
has vanished from this existence
I am suspended
in waiting
Much to my vexation
time too slowly
ticks by
delaying our reunion.
I curse the blank heavens
and wonder their worth
of praise or recognition
and question their dwelling
in anything based on wisdom
in leaving a small boy
lost in darkest oblivion.
As always,
Thank you for reading this labor of love.
May many blessings be cast upon you and yours.
With all my love,
Max
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