Poem on Sunday: Dear Godfather

Sophie Buchaillard

Children have their own perspective on the world. It is difficult to explain to my own children what it was like, growing up in the 1980s, when the AIDS crisis started.

The irrational fear and hatred that grasped people, and the impact it had on communities that acted as scapegoats. I lost my godfather to the virus.

Years later, I was compelled to write this poem to bear witness.

Dear Godfather

The picture you took
stands on the bedside table
like a constant reminder.

One portrait. Innocent family
day at the beach, blurred
like a sand storm.

You, who captured
reels of coiled bodies
from Dakar to N’Djamena,

your soft gaze, seeping
quietly into men’s hearts,
like a death sentence.

It was hard
to see,
your perspective.

On your last visit,
you looked
like a grey man,

skin tinged yellow,
wrapped around
brittle bones.

Acquired fears spread rumours
I was too young to understand.
Dad murmured into my ear:
Stéphane is gone.

Erased by a sickness
they said, only affected
young men. He pulled
me onto his lap, and we cried.

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