Backyard Ghosts (III)

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I wanted to ask, but I never spoke up
When I was six, maybe seven
Our Dad tore down our swingset
The swings and slide had rusted
The day before the yard combusted
Between piles of compost
Burying backyard ghosts
I saw the rotten fence shake
And undulate and break
Beaten by an unknown force
Coming from our neighbours’ porch
My Dad yelled trying to duck
“Hey Fred, hey! What the f*ck?”
He climbed the ladder on the slide
Peering to the other side
That’s memory to me
A desperate look, incomplete
That’s memory to me
A failing climb toward meaning
That’s memory to me
A desperate look, incomplete
That’s memory to me
A failing climb
I wanted to ask, but I never spoke up
“Hey Fred, hey! What the f*ck?”
I don’t remember what he saw
Or if it was anything at all
We never talked about it
There was no discussion after
He stepped down, let out some nervous laughter
And turned back to his chair
Running both hands through his hair
That’s memory to me
A desperate look, incomplete
That’s memory to me
A failing climb toward meaning
I heard Fred moved soon after
A year before he retired
I heard his wife died in her garden
And he blamed himself for that (we never talked about it)
I don’t even know if he was married (that's memory to me, we never talked about it)
Or anything about the guilt he carried (that's memory to me, we never talked about it)
I wanted to ask, but never spoke up
“Hey Fred, hey! What the f*ck?”

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