It’s the small things,
After a person is gone,
That keep him alive,
For a time,
The things unnoticed
Until they rise
Out of memory’s grave.
My father’s beard,
Always a shadow,
Even at 5 a.m.,
Briefly bristled my cheek,
While my mother
Lilted, “Rise and shine,”
In the dark
Of day number four
For child number four
To fish with the week’s ruler
Of a 100-acre Florida lake—
A hot June field of lily pads
Floating on water,
As dark as ripened plums—
Where Old Granddaddy lurked,
King of a mythic domain
Beyond taxonomic rank.
I preferred
Picking water lilies
To plumbing the depths
For a ghost.
With a hook in one hand,
My father side-pinched a cricket
Between his thumb and pointer finger,
And stuck the hook,
In the back,
Just behind the head,
And threaded it,
“Like so,”
And the legs churned—
I slapped at gnats
That weren’t there.
Shoved in the shade
Of the boat’s middle seat,
The cricket box stayed mute,
And I wondered,
Did they know?
The cork float bobbed,
Sleep-blurring the pole
(Was it cane?)
Out of my hands;
My father grabbed it.
I looked down
And pulled hard
On the ribbons
(Were they turquoise?)
Of my mother’s straw hat
Until the brim
Flattened into flaps
On either side
Of my head—
I fancied them
Folded wings.
That night, he pan-fried supper
And showed us how
To bite the tip
Of a crisp bream tail
Dotted with salt
And peppery cornmeal.
Night after night,
The porch song wore down
As the cricket box emptied;
The last of them clung,
For no reason,
To the fine wire mesh.
Day after day,
My father iced and
Packed headless fish,
Silver-clean and fin-stiff,
In his metal chest:
Home-bound treasure
For the downstairs freezer.
At 5 a.m. today,
A lone cricket’s chirp
Stop-started, like a song
Skipping on vinyl,
And boxed me in,
Irked,
Until I passed my hands,
Moist with coconut oil and sweat,
Over my face,
The faint scent of Florida—
And the summer of
Seersucker over blouses and shorts
With grown-up back zippers
And rick-rack trim,
And my father reaching out
To pluck a pale water lily,
Out of purple water,
Just for me.
Catherine, this brought a lump to my throat. This poetic paean to your father shimmers….
Thanks, Lori. Hope your Florida summer is a nice as I remember! All best, Catherine
Yes, it is, Catherine. These sun-kissed days do wonders for one’s spirits…
This is beautiful in imagery and message.
Joy, Thanks so much for stopping by. I appreciate your time!
Busy day for the old professor.
Child, you are on a roll. That is a marvelous poem. Lord a mercy! I bow before thee. Alchemical.
Sent from my iPhone
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Thanks for checking in, prof! And thanks for your kind words. Best, k
Lovely!
So glad you stopped by, Peg. Wishing you all the best! Take care, ch