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Ode to my Father
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| Watch a trickle of
mirrored circles fall. Tiny wheels, spokes and cogs, as they splash on a
table of glass. Watch as, with a twist of my fingers, how they begin to spin. Look how the light bounces from wheel to wheel and listen to this; I want you to see a man. Let’s see if I can describe him in my careful tick tock words. Listen as a clock unwinds its springs in a whirl of sprockets. Hear the chime hammers cock and fall. Feel the after ring fade against a smell of old mahogany. Imagine the strength of stone bridges granite cliffs, tall timbers and ocean tides Not cold strength but warm, warm as Yuma sand. He has the stature of a clock tower and a sharp steeple spine; narrow wrought-iron limbs, long and draped in fine charcoal wool. He wears a fur-felt Stetson with a quail-eye feather tucked above a wide brim that shades a smile and hazel eyes looking on the world. He casts a cool shadow long and straight as a Kansas highway that stretches from wing tip feet to the edge of a herringbone sky. Umber skin sets fire to his opal-white shirt, pressed and creased to perfection, it glows and always has the smell of peppermint twirling from the breast pocket. You can swim in his voice, silky and low, saturated with liquid words, and timbered like willow limbs sound as they play across a spring Kentucky breeze. Feel his hand, big as a ten-pound sledge, but smooth, unscathed; soft as tufts of milkweed and clean. God! They are so clean. He has long fingers, slim, delicate; they build the life works into clocks and tiny miracles. They caress life like a jeweler would precious gems and gold They touch like grass touches air and draw everything into them. Watch as all they touch is released renewed. He is a surgeon of metal and stone, a mender of spring-steel muscles and balance-wheel minds. He is a master at dividing the day into moments. He stands guard for survivors of war, now fallen to life's failing clockworks. Stilled pendulums, spent springs of old friends and artifacts of his life. He stands before retiring colors in full dress. Gold brocade laden shoulders bear the heft of teak while his slow white-gloved salute offers fond farewell. Watch the circles spin to rest. See their glitter go. Feel the pendulum's soft decay to quiet night and although the ebb of an era of fineness fades in time he still stands tall I guess you can't really see him or know as I have. The man called King when he was a lad. The man who can lift your heart when all is sad. The man I proudly call my dad. |
| John H. Freeman |
Copyright © 2013