My Parents

---

Once there was, up on the shelf, a prominent display

Of books I loved to read, familiar words, and pictures, too

Sometimes leafing through them, as the hours slipped away

Perspective, balance, ways of life, the things my father knew...

I kept them grouped together, an eclectic sort of set

Dad's dictionary, atlas, and a storybook or two

His old encyclopedia, and books where one could get

Insight into humor, music, words, to name a few

The books were warm and comfy, well made bindings, slightly worn

With leather and fine lettering, his name inscribed in each

Remarkably well-kept, few pages stained, few pages torn

I loved the way they felt, his life seemed always within reach

Then came the day when doctors saw the change in my dad's health

And checked him in, to spend his last days lying in a bed

His books began to disappear, a quickly thinning shelf

One by one, and I could see what loomed, not far, ahead

I saved some photocopies, favorite pages, tucked away

Quotes and facts, jotted down on pastel Post-It notes

A picture of the bookshelf as it looked "back-in-the-day"

Collected memories, along with favorite anecdotes

And now I keep these in a box, these pages that belonged

Years ago, to books that were my father's life on earth

A distillation, vintage wine, a well-remembered song

A symphony that stretches back in time, to my dad's birth!

The originals are gone, no hint of where to find them now

An empty space, in their place, with dust up on the shelf

And yet my box of keepsakes* helps remind me that, somehow,

My dad has come to be a very real part of myself

How glad I am that I spent time enjoying all of these

When dad was quite alive, and all the books were there to read

And I could lose myself within the pages when I pleased

Talking with the man, himself, quite a friend, indeed

And so, I slip his denim jacket on, and in my chair,

Recline, a box of keepsakes* held within my lap, and leaf

Through all the mem'ries I have saved, then finding, when I dare,

The shelf appears, and with it, all the books that once were there

I guess there's now a bookshelf, with books that bear my name

Consulted when a daughter calls me up, to shoot the breeze

Maybe it's much like the way I saw my dad, the same

Old warm, unchanging bookshelf, holding my books, that she sees

*author's note - there is no physical "box of keepsakes," but rather a handful of objects in our home,  and memories...

There was a family long ago, two boys, two girls, who sat

To have their picture taken for the family's mantel-top

Perhaps they played at Snow's Pond on the family land there, that,

Across the years, became a favorite summer picnic-stop

Great aunt's cottage peeking out, as sandy beach sweeps past

Fragrant pines reflected in the ripples, mostly blur

Memories and fantasies of childhood, held fast

In cousins' conversations, where beach and sun endure

Captured in a painting made in nineteen forty four

By a man, to conjure hope, my uncle would survive

To see the longed-for end of the second World War

To come home, whole, to this man's daughter, happy, and alive

In the home where I grew up, it hung upon the wall

Gifted by a hero, and a gentle, well-loved brother

To his younger sister, who then hung it in the hall

The girl who grew up to become, as time went by, my mother

My uncle was a warm man, it was nice to share his name

Quiet like the pond, with a sweep of sandy hair

My mother, dark-haired, strong, and deeply good, but not the same

With certain country walls across which we could never share

The painting, so well-loved, hangs upon my own wall now

The arc of sandy beach suggests connection to the past

A walk to take to see my mom, her brother, too, somehow

Fragrance, warmth, and water in a place that will outlast

The turbulance of war, and times of mystery now lost

Generations, hoping, all, for family love each day

Not a rocky beach, by stormy ocean wildly tossed

Instead, a lovely, sandy pond, where happy children play