Poem: That Motel in Savannah

That Motel in Savannah

We were staying at that hotel,
that old motel you liked,

and my Dad liked it.  He said
he liked it, at least,

enjoyed the charm of it,
the colorful take on retro chic,

but then he got sick.  Remember:
he was about to eat an oyster.

I do not know why I remember
the oyster.  It is not important,

even the restaurant is not important,
but it was The Old Grey.

I remember taking him to the hospital,
remember the waiting, the hallways,

the way he looked.  It was hours
before they admitted him.

That hospital, you remember
how bad it was,

the mistranscribed notes
that led to mistreatment,

the night he called frantic,
sounding insane.  

Mom went that night,
came back saying it was true,

said she had seen enough
to know they were gaslighting him,

were attempting to cover up mistakes
by making him seem crazy.

And he was still not well,
but he could not stay there.

Remember the fight we had
convincing the administration

to let him go.  We were in Georgia
and could not drive home overnight,

not with him in the car.  We stopped
in Daytona for a night,

got him to the hospital here
in another day.  And he made it,

that time he made it.  But,
you saw it too, didn't you?

He was worse, his lungs
were worse.  He never seemed better,

and then that night came
when I had to pick him up,

when the paramedics were called
and rushed him back to the ER

for the last time.  I knew it was coming.
He knew it too,

said it was his last year,
told me that.  He felt it.

It was clear.  And I wonder,
I have thought it so long,

have felt it gnawing
even if I never said,

but we chose that hotel,
that old motel,

and it was refreshed, but
it was still an old building,

was not kept up, was not
the kind of place my parents picked,

and I wonder if it was dirty,
wonder what was there,

what came into his lungs there.
Did that kill him?  Did we kill him?

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