Memories

The red glow

of a lit

cigarette,

a puff of a smoke, a joke, and a hearty laugh

all from the big man in a flimsy porch chair

on a summer eve on the street where I grew up.

A nicotine-

stained forefinger

tapping a beat

on the steering wheel of a station wagon

carrying me from grade school on a spring day,

back to the home on the street where I grew up.

A young boy’s

forefinger (mine)

pointing with pride

at the big man in the blue police uniform

stepping out of his car in the driveway

of the home on the street where I grew up.

The big man’s

proud smile,

firm handshake,

and warm gaze into my eyes at my graduation

from college, something he never accomplished

in all the years he was growing up and adulthood.

The retired

big man holding

my little child,

his first grandchild, up to his stubbled cheek

while wearing a brown security-guard uniform,

during my visit to the home where I grew up.

An organ plays

“On Eagle’s Wings”

at the big man’s

funeral. I touch his coffin, fight back a tear,

console my mom and brothers. It’s too painful

to recall events in the house I grew up in.

My son’s

forefinger

taps a beat

on the steering wheel of his car. “Just like Grandpa,”

I say from the passenger seat. We both laugh

as I recall life with Dad in the house I grew up in.

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