Shall we [SPORT]?
What fun!
Catch!
Sorry.
Ha! That’s okay.
My turn!
Whoops! Good throw, though.
Yay!
My bad.
Sorry!
Sorry!
Ye…sorry.
Shall we [MOVIE]?
What fun!
-
-
The soul dawdles, lingers in the past;
trailing fingers along the surface
of what should have been delved
long before.Ripples expand to reflect the outline
of regret, the shapes we missed, then,
yet now perceive with sorrowful joy
until the soul startles and wakes,
cries for our attention:
Wait! -
sweating, struggling, we’re lugging
the bin over grass and gravel,
sticks and stones
to the mound of broken trees,the earth hot and dry like
Hemingway or Steinbeck;
man and boy toiling through
the fading sunlight.you wait at the edge, eager,
forward and back again as
i shovel mulch and grunt.
your fingers twitch.dust rises and you cough,
shielding your face
from the grit and sun;
still, you watchand finally ask, ‘can I?’
of course, though you can’t,
possibly, lift even the blade.
i pass the handle, and you grin.i wait at the edge, eager,
forward and back again as
you place your hands and grunt,
frowning but not asking for help.your hands slide forward, seeking
the physics you don’t understand,
and you do, lift. and more, you
shove and lift again,over your waist, shoulder, head,
blade full by anyone’s measure,
and tip the chips into (mostly)
the bin.the blade drops with your hands,
clanging on the hard-packed dirt.
you breathe heavy and sigh.
‘I think I’m too little.’ -
Ask ‘What’s your name?’ in the same way you’d
ask ‘How’d you do that?’ of even
a middling magician, with delighted disbelief that you are
witness to such a miracle.Kids are as protective of their trade secrets,
but this isn’t one of them.If she replies, ‘Lilian’,
you reply ‘Steve?’ because
you are old with old ears and an old brain.
(It’s funny because it’s true.)She will, politely, correct you.
‘Bob,’ with certainty.
‘Lilian,’ with frustration.
‘Alex’, with confusion.
Watch her face; she will frown.
She’s looking for the hidden catch,
the palmed coin, the marked card.
The hussle.Are you playing her, or are you playing?
‘Lilian!’
Paul. Benson. Tom. Ned. Ted.
(But not ‘Gene’. No one ever laughs at ‘Gene’.)‘Steve!’ And she will laugh.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Steve!’
And she will shake your hand, and laugh again,
because it wasn’t her name. But it was her card. -
My grandmother would make them,
large-knit in green, red, and white:
thick cables of yarn as cylindrical
camouflage for rolls of toilet paper, or
insulation against pots of chicken and dumplings.Her shawl reminded me of these,
though white and splotched with dollops of
yellow surrounded by petaled pink and blue.
She wore it each week,
rain or shine, Epiphany or Lent.(Truth be told, the church can be cold.)
She arrived, shuffling; sat, shuddering,
and her son helped her, lowered her, down.
She stayed, bent, forward over her hands
as we stood shaking hands and sharing peace.The asterisk asked her to
* Stand if you are able.
Not a command of passive-aggressive guilt, but
suggestion and instruction. A lesson
in humility for those who don’t know or have forgotten:
in worship, in respect, in joy, we stand.And each week she stood,
rain or shine, Advent or Easter.
Fingers curled and gripping the pew;
not pushed but pulled, drawn, and called
to her feet with patience,
without hesitation.Her son’s hands holding the hymnal.