timmy
Member
|
A photograph
of the two of them.
Father, adjusted face.
Mother, plucked eyebrows,
dark hair pulled back, black
dress, no jewelry.
Father has the same Brylcreem
look in his hair he died with.
His eyes shine.
The photograph says my home
was there. Behind them.
The white birch flower plot
on the corner lot, the weedy
main garden behind the garage.
Inside, the dining room table
piled with papers, sunlight
along the east windows.
I can still hear father whistling
a little tune, cheerful, out-of-key.
He is busy turning his face
to the light. Mother looks straight
ahead. She poses like she has
her whole life in front of her.
|
