Your huge hands, a pool champion’s sausage fingers carving roast dinners.
I rarely think of you now but memory lingers.
It’s leaves return every year; they rustle in the rain.
The walnut tree with the swing.
You’d push me so high rush of wind and air, chunks of cherry bough caught in my hair and I thought I would never come down. Your skin wrinkled in the sun like an apricot. And me and Elisha would run and race electrical jeeps in the garden fetching you walnuts.
I was afraid of your pond, you said there was a shark in it, dangerous like the cancer in your body, I was afraid of the pig skin patch on your arm.
Considered too young for the funeral, my memories look like the photos I look at afterwards.