My Father’s Spice
Signature arctic
wiry hair, his pride
among balding friends
Carried a leather briefcase
washed his Lincoln with care
on weekends
Forty-eight years gone
Yet the bouquet memory
of his walk-in closet
musky and male
suits and sport coats
tidy, shoes polished
‘til they reflected light
And ties—so many ties
myriad colors, wool and silk
I crouched under the jackets
drank in his spice
During spring break
in an elm-shaded park
I saw my father
in the Lincoln, lifting
a brown-bagged bottle
to his lips
His thoughts
his dreams
drowned in the liquid
hidden from me
Gosh, beautiful and sad
Such a tender portrayal of a man anesthetizing his pain, and hiding behind a facade, but not hidden well enough. I too had a startled unexpected view of my father's hidden life that changed me forever. These are harsh memories that need the light of day. Emily