Subtle Things

They come and go; 

these memories that form

the weave of the vast swaths 

of the fabric of my father.

Muted, earthy tartan patterns

run on; each row its own, but

clearly a call and response

to the whole.  Variations

on his theme.

Sometimes the flick of his

wrist as he casts his line to 

that hole - just on the other

side of that rock - that one rock 

along the Neshaminy 

at Chain Bridge.

His hand wrapped gracefully

around the cork rod butt that had

worn almost smooth from sweat,

and oil, and friction.  

All his.

Sometimes the effortless way

he walked across the back yard;

heading for his beer once the 

lawn was freshly mown.  Shirtless

and tan.  Slathered up good

with baby oil.

Sometimes his swift

snatch and grab as he taught

me the lore of night crawler

hunting after hosing down

the grass around the bushes

after dark.

Sometimes the instructions he

gave on holding that three inch

flat tip brush by the ferrule

as I painted the bricks with

water in the Maxwell House can -

the water drying 

before the row was done.

Timelessly they are woven

deep into my me.