"Lassiter!...I shudder when I think of that name, of him. But when I look at the man I forget who he is — I almost like him." Jane Withersteen
The Agnostic
My orphaned father shined shoes
twice-monthly.
His grandfather Joseph,
all hell and brimstone,
demanded from leather
a clean and supple walk.
Later, as an entrenched soldier
in a Forgotten War,
my father rubbed as he
was instructed in schematic process.
After the skirmish
his legs lay stone and
paralyzed from shrapnel,
as his shoes rested
spit shine in wait.
Then, home in the 60's,
in the over-sized even
resined glow of a passing Saturday,
my father peeled the skin of
an orange before using picks
to crack and prize log-bowled meats.
Earlier in the same spot,
I'd sat there on his Naugahyde
throne where to read more Jane
in Riders of the Purple Sage.
On rag nights,
my father would push the
scattered shells into a bin, and lift
a blackened, bristled brush
from the box beside his chair.
I'd hear the side-to side
rhythm of his steady work
as he removed a week's
collected dust.
I'd watch as he'd select
a tin of Kiwi
before wrapping
the tear of a remnant tee
across his palm.
A trailing tip would dip
a thick and decent amount of polish
from tin to standing water
circling and blending
edge to sole.
Upon retire,
my father put his shoes and kit away.
On Sundays,
Mother woke to tie
blue ribbons taut at
the back of my crinoline
skirted dress.
She'd don white pressed
fingers and remove one black
patent clutch from
its protective wrap.
Together, bound for service,
she'd instruct me to
bid my father goodbye.
A stubbled cheek would pass
in brief touch
and a calloused hand would
carry to childhood
the fortnight oils
of olives and walnuts.
At eleven,
as pieces of the sermon
wafted over the pew,
my gentle mother's gloved
and cooperate hand
held mine securely across her lap.
In her maternal stillness,
thoughts would drift
and my eyes would mesmerize
the long silk lines of
taupe stockings which fell
agreeably silent into
toes of gleaming shoes.
Scupper © 2/2010, A Valentine for a father
Alewine family photo
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Comments
R
Beautiful scupper, in spirit as well as words.
I saw a man bend and swipe a cloth across a shoe. It hit me also. This one I had to write.
"In her maternal stillness,
thoughts would drift
and my eyes would mesmerize
the long silk lines of
taupe stockings which fell
agreeably silent into
toes of gleaming shoes. "
You sure know how to express yourself poetically!
I'm a sucker for sweet family reminiscences. They are what I call mind snapshots.
"and a calloused hand would
carry to childhood
the fortnight oils
of olives and walnuts"
I'm waiting to see where you file this in your blog links. I can't believe the eclectic choice of tags that you made for this poem. Zane Grey? I expected tags like : open call, family, and/or poetry.
Super rated, girl.
Kisses,
Marcela