Thursday, June 05, 2008

A Drop in My Memory

5 June 2008, 8:17 AM

He balanced the orange mug
in one hand, then the other, never spilling
a drop in my memory.
He must have been magic,
maneuvering wheel, manual gearshift
and coffee with only two hands-
my dad could manage such things,
make them look easy, though
I knew from the look in his eye
it must require concentration. I understood
the image of a dance, the one he always
used to try to help us grasp the concept
of putting in the clutch to shift; releasing
the pressure slowly. Rising
from my memory, I see him again, an image
of control- no- stability I haven’t glimpsed
in over a decade. I hadn’t realized
how difficult it must have been
keeping life and grief balanced, never spilling
a drop. In my memory,
there is room for mercy if he missed me
in his trance, saw only
the task before him, the little girl
in awe of such a very big,
such a very magical man.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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