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To Oakwood and Back through the morning fog we crawl toward confrontation; in tow an empty trailer full of our apprehensions dad's alone now that you've left us him to his demons, his war, his life, his grief, his group of mis-remembered friends, us to our demons, our wars, lives, griefs - there's that trailer again - how to haul away your (whose?) treasures and leave him with more than mere memories more than he knows how to handle we've come to empty - his - i could call it 'our' but that's wrong i could call it 'your' but that hurts - house until (almost) nothing remains but the odor of your absence the echoes of your laughter banging down the stairs seeping into the worn carpet clinging to the old oak table the centerpiece of the dining room the original antique piece that came to represent the family that never left after our diaspora to the cities if even a mouse, a couch, a chair a cup, a plate, a spoon, a fork - dare we give him a knife - ? i unscrew each anchor from below holding my breath as if beneath the hull of a great old wood boat counting to myself the turns of the days the years spent here at anchor in the harbor swaying to the waves rising and falling with the tide carving a bird or sloughing diamonds to your ruff remember how the lazy susan creaked as if tired as if old and burdened by a Scrabble board? i surface and we lift the great oval (then realize it's got straight edges leaves extending from a tight perfect circle) now cut in half - as we slide it into the van and lay it upon the floor i see its veins and the moles on its back and i scratch an itch curse and turn to go back for the base whose four legs stand starkly in the empty room there in the late November light where we gathered years ago and drank our first wine we slide in the extra leaves their male and female edges perfect impatiently waiting to mate and create that great surface where too many last suppers we ate the carpet's old and weakly wavey that sea-sick sense of vertigo sweeps one off two feet rust from the once-too-often wet wheels imprinted on the carpet a wound an open sore that bleeds when he sits and sips his warm milk late at night with the tube tuned to M*A*S*H (he's into the seriatim - a mainlined dose of war-less humor he can't seem to hate in your absence he loves it instead) we tie in the last of the great pieces of art: that secretary that stood guard over the lot Her high brows knit in stern concern while we insure her large glass doors met no chance of harm covering them with bolts of wool you'd bought and saved hoping someday to slice and impress upon the next creation from your hooks those Davids those Rubens you left us hanging in the den the wools of plaid of rust of grass of barn red of cabbage of heather or any weather scene all jumbled in disarray hung and stuffed in corners to protect the booty we stowed deep inside that big white trailer we'd borrowed to move you your collection of memories an album of photos graying in silvery silence now stuffed inside like bread and spice the long ride home to bake the bird how tippy-toed we drove and jumped with the bumps and the thoughts of shattered glass he seemed relieved when we left as if his mind had just been relieved of a great - wait he never expected you to go first never anticipated alone i don't remember much from the ride home but when i saw him next he had a smile on his face for the first time in a long time and i recalled that at your interment a month earlier he'd said - as we all made selfish and quickly thrown together statements that sounded like truth - that he missed you as we filled in the blaring silence with "I do too" it began to rain - and I keenly recall thinking - more gently, than it should |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Jennifer j Hill On Date: 2006-01-05 21:18:36
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
T,
This deserves #1. Bravo and Good Luck.
jj