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.