PUNK POETRY: After Scratching Off A Lottery Ticket, My Father Died by Debbie Walker-Lass

It had been raining on and off for the three days we held vigil in his room in the barren ICU. Red-eyed and hungry, we stood in our hunched-over way, or sat tentatively on edge of folding molded-plastic chairs while he, uncomfortably full of tubes and lifelines he never wanted, (apparently a DNR holds no sway when a person codes in an ambulance) slowly and with great effort, brought a nickel to the surface of the Lotto ticket, etching away at the filmy gray that covered what was sure to be a big hit. Already having defied the odds of living through a botched CPR attempt that left him alive, but with a hole in his right lung, the “Good” one, the one not totally filled to the brim with the ravages of COPD, he stared at the ticket, eyes shining with the glow of a winner. The left lung was the “Bad” one before a burly guy in a blue uniform blew out the right one as he ham-handed my fragile, strong, limitless father, my daddy, my gruff, sweet, luminous “Pops.” He repositioned in the slim white bed, summoning all of his considerable willpower to survey the ticket, unruly silver hair haloing his ruggedly handsome 84-year-old face, hazel, slightly cataracted eyes burrowing into the numbers before him. I listened closely as his vent-cracked throat croaked; “Fourteen wins, I need one more, come on, baby!” I surreptitiously snapped a photo of him with Lynn before he realized his loss, before the smile escaped that sweet face. We would cry rivers tomorrow, the rain welling outward, as he vacated his earthly body, quiet, unrattled, dignified. Leaving as he lived, perhaps lucky. 

Oh, father the love

Clings to you like the gray ash

From your last scratch-off  

--Debbie Walker-Lass