5. Ode to A__
I can still picture you, gray hair cut en brosse
(I thought that might make you laugh),
those thick, black-framed glasses you wore
long after/before they became fashionable,
not too tall, not too heavy,
but not otherwise,
in sturdy work clothes that would have
looked at home on a farm, or in a repair shop.
Your business was neither, and, as it turned out,
it was not even yours. Or was it? No matter.
How Dickens would have loved you.
In those days, in a different kind of world,
one found a job to help pay for college.
I was such a one, and you offered such a job.
When I worked quickly, you suggested
I slow down, so I could earn more money.
When a situation turned ugly, you stepped in,
did my work and cleaned up long before I arrived.
In those days, in that different world,
when one fractured a wrist,
one visited the family physician.
I was such a one, with such a wrist.
So, you took me to your own doctor, and insisted
on paying for my care.
Then, because I could not work one-handed,
you offered me a better job, and a raise.
Were you kind? Yes, to me.
Were you cruel? I suspect so.
And you were steady, and funny, and flawed.
And you were generous, and withdrawn.
But I did not recognize you, your complexity
— for self-centered youth inhabits a world
of supporting characters. And now I wonder
if I can truthfully say that I remember you,
as you deserved to be remembered.
All this, and more, is true.
© 2020 by Hannah Six
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