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Late December: my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me
on his shoulders in the bitter wind:
scraps of white paper
blow over the railroad ties.

My father liked
to stand like this, to hold me
so he couldn't see me.
I remember
staring straight ahead
into the world my father saw;
I was learning
to absorb its emptiness,
the heavy snow
not falling, whirling around us.
So intricate, so pure
Tell me, did you put this here?
Oh sorry, I forgot
You are not the spider
That's her

Look at the beautiful water
Droplets so precious
How can you resist such melancholy?
See her blue?
Is that my grey?
Oh sorry, that is you

So fragile and insecure
Now really, what can she mend?
My paper lined heart?
Oh sorry, my mistake
It was you she did break

Look at the shadows there
So deep and morose
Can't see what I mean?
Her yellow gutted spleen
That your foot?
So sorry, my misstep
Look where she flies, fleet-footed Syrinx,
her chiton drenched, her sole bruised.
See the stalks that kiss her calves,
bend to embrace, then spring back:
green as the nymph, slender as she,
fragile flutes and ankle-bones.
She thinks to hide her in a reed;

but she has always been a reed,
always shown the promise of instruments.
She has been brittle; she has dreamed
of the god's hand to splinter her,
and craft of tatters, beauty and music;
awaits the lover of earthen nails
to put his mouth on her, his life's breath in her,
and make her broken body sing.
Eyes sliver open languidly, feel out the corners
Stretched, palms pressed against white walls
Pull the covers high above my head
Building courage to greet the day

Lungs fill with a familiar scent
Smile, reach and caress a glowing cheek
Next to me, he turns, all elbows and sighs
Find him  in a second with tingling toes and fingertips

Untangle the limbs and sheets
Firm and nut-brown, coarse in the right places
Soft in the best places, he's flawless
Dare to disturb the rhythmic breathing


Wake up, I whisper
Coffee, he groans
My Father passed away this Fall, finally overwhelmed by the Pulmonary Fibrosis that had slowly taken away his air and his vitality over the past 5 years.  Right before he died, I had the honor of being the assistant engineer on my Dad’s last project.  In his last month, my Dad had became focused on his “router project”.  Dad had sent Mom to the store to find a very specific and necessary *****.  They had spend hours bolting and unbolting the router from underneath the saw table.  With the help of mom, Dad had spend much of his precious last breaths of energy shaping pieces of aluminum and drilling and tapping holes in order to accomplish... “something”.

Mom was getting a little frustrated by the whole thing. She was indulging his efforts, but she didn't understand what he was trying to accomplish. After I had been working with him for a few hours she asked me if I could tell what his objective was because she couldn't understand why he was spending so much energy and effort on a router. I explained it this way, "Mom, he is just tying up loose ends while he can. He doesn't want the router to fall when the next guy uses it. He is making a safety device. It is important to him... I'll help him figure it out"

Truth is, I had already figured one thing out, Dad's design had a serious flaw. He has made some serious miscalculations about the direction which gravity acts. His "safety catch" would only prevent the router from floating up to the ceiling. He knew it didn’t work but he was not able to understand why. His very sharp mind was being worn dull by lack of oxygen... I broke the news to him as gently as men do “Well, Dad, your idea won’t work. Not ever going to work. I am pretty sure we have to abandon it, unless gravity is going to start pulling things up to the ceiling some time soon.”  and then I cut him a little slack... “But I think the general idea is a good one... let me see if I can think of a way to modify it”

All the time we worked together, he didn’t speak more than a few works. He didn’t have the energy or the breath.  I read his eyes, his body language and his emotions.  He was very disappointed that he could not solve this problem.

So I solved it... I came up with a solution that worked.  Admittedly, I was rushing a bit and it wasn’t exactly elegant.  I shaped the metal, drilled the holes, ******* things together and after a few minutes I showed it to him.  He frowned. Stuck his chin out a bit further and shook his head “no”.  

“But Dad... see it works... it can’t possibly fall now”.

(no)

And then somehow I read the reason in his eyes. “So... you think that it will all come apart with vibration? Is that it Dad”

(nod... yes)

“Well... I can put some lock washers on it... that will hold it all together”. I proceeded to find the necessary lock washers and bolt it all back together...
(frown... no)

“So... you just don’t like it do you?”

(no)

Then I got a bit frustrated. My design was adequate and would likely work. But then I realized that the tides had really turned and it was time for me to show him the same kind of patience and kindness that he had show me countless times over the years. “Well then Dad I think that we should toss out my idea, it is only getting in the way of the best idea... let’s take a look at it again and see if we can figure it out”

We stared at it for another 15 minutes or so. Both engineers confounded but open to new ideas. And then the idea came...

Dad spoke. “Take out that *****... cut a slot... Dremmel tool”

Brilliant. A solution much more elegant than either of our first ideas.  In short order I had the work completed and the router hanging back under the saw table.  

Last project done.

After he thanked me for the help I encouraged him, “Dad... it was you that solved the problem.  You just needed me to get you past your first bad idea so you could get to your good solution.”

Before I left to go home he thanked me again for helping him finish his project and I had the opportunity to tell him for the last time that I loved him. I sat on his bed and kissed his head and held his hand for a few minutes until he made it clear that I needed to go. He didn’t want me to see him cry.

A few days later Mom called and said that Dad was going downhill fast and that perhaps being relieved of that one last project had helped him to finally let go.  

What an honor.

The very next day Mom called again and told me that Dad had asked her to make some measurements for new rain gutters.
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four foot box, a foot for every year.
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