father's day:

the sound of him working downstairs,

in our basement, out of which he re-

emerged, seeing the magic in our eyes:

wood toys, used but well waxed skiis,

advent reefs, bikes like new,

diningtable extensions so all

his grandkidsmight sit with him,

and other knick-knackinventions,

sometimes driving mom crazy,

but always garnering significant

approvalfrom us all, for this was

his true art form.

 

he could fix everything and he still does.

last Christmas I found myself getting

food from the pantry and suddenly

stopped, hearing the usual prayerful

meditation of my father fixing up the

world around him one flat tire at a time.

I listened to the noise of him working,

telling my heart to remember these

sounds, storing them up for the years

ahead, when all I will have is the music

of my father working. of my father loving.