All posts tagged: Poetry

Tin Man Heart

1961 Thanksgiving Eve an untimely tragedy left my father fatherless and you the only grandpa I ever knew.   Model airplanes on wire, Posters of cars, Hawaii. Jam jars of nails and screws. Drill press Band saw Pine planks Light bulb glow on sawdust drifts. Miniature engine parts, boxed beside piles and piles of Popular Mechanic.   1966 Chevelle. Three on the tree. Dueled exhaust. Cherry-bomb mufflers. Your apple-red beauty, polished to mirror gentle hands, oil-black and coarse.   1956 The girl from Iowa chose Spokane and you.   One daughter, a wealth of sons to pass along your lessons on the mechanics of life and love. A generation old enough to tell of your mischief and kindness. Babies too young to remember your hazel eyes, but small enough to wrap tiny fingers around your thumb.   1995 Frantic surgery. Aortic-valve. You almost died. Then, tick-tick tick-tick tick-tick a Tin Man heart.   Years and years and years, mercy-filled and overflowing. Moments of fragility, Brokenness.   Your heart clocked a lot of mileage. More than …

Time is a Gift

When I am an old woman, the vivid image of your gray-blue eyes may flicker and the way she scolded you for crying. The sound of your whimper recalled only by recordings. That funny look that made her laugh, only a photo. One afternoon, the last ten miles home, you cried. She cried, too. Weary of the road, missing her YaYa. We were a family of four on our own for the first time, and the car filled with the kind of desperation that dissipates only when the engine dies. Your week old voice crescendoed. She matched your volume. I would have felt helpless except for your dad, who smiled back at me. Time slowed. I took in the June sun on summer kudzoo; the gray asphalt snaking through farmland, lush, even in drought; the unison of your distraught cries; the hand holding mine. I memorized the moment for myself for tomorrow, next week, next year. For the days when I am an old woman and unable to remember. Remember tough times. Sweet times. I …