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| Wim Hofman - 1941 photo singeluitgeverijen |
My father
turned ninety the day before yesterday,
and now he is in bed.
Thus his ninety-first autumn begins.
The sun shines in through the window
on the wallpaper and the embroidery
he once made:
a still life with blue plums and green
grapes
in cross stitch, set in an oaken frame.
The nights, he says,
the nights are the worst.
He pants. He is tired.
He would rather say nothing more,
but I suspect that not everything has
been said.
A bush of gray hair
sticks out almost attractively above
the blankets.
Just sleep, father,
dream of something beautiful
the best thing you ever saw in your
long always to short life
the raspberry-lemonade-pink evening sun
above the sea
near Vlissingen, the lightning above
the sea
while fishing at night, the moon
that jumped out of heaven like a silver
fish,
the moment you had a bite
and something impatiently tugged at
your fishing line,
as if to say
Hello Hofman,
are you still there?
Original title: Mijn vader From: Tirade 386 / 2000 Nr. 4 - Uitgeverij G.A. van Oorschot, Amsterdam
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