Some twenty-five years forward
From his death,
A cancer,
That maybe today he could have survived,
I am thinking of my father
And how after a day’s work
Selling concrete
Or hanging a door for some neighbor,
He would find his way after dinner
To the swimming pool
Which he and mom built
In their struggle to work their way
Into the great American middle class.
And as a summer’s heat dissipated
Into the golden hours of the evening
He would vacuum the pool
Carefully cleaning the bottom of
Leaves, grass clippings and such,
The detritus of privilege.
I was a teenager then
And although it was one of my chores
I expressed no interest in cleaning the pool;
The duty seemed tedious.
My father would remind me to vacuum
But he never asked twice.
Sometimes I would feel a pang of guilt
As I left for the evening with friends,
Seeing him push the pole
Slowly back and forth.
It was only just the other day
These twenty-five years out
That it came to me
In a daydream randomly accessed,
That he in fact might have enjoyed the task;
The solitude
Sounding the depths
Lost for a few moments
In this singular activity.
If I had been the man I am today
Back then
I might have joined him
To share a moment
Or at least give him a nod of acknowledgement
From across the backyard.
Posts
