The sweetness at the end of the meadow (Day 1326; Part 5: Ode to A__)

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And you were generous, and withdrawn.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

The sweetness at the end of the meadow (Day 1303; Part 4: C__)

4. C__

Not a witch but, if you had ever been, 

you would have forgotten by then 

how to cast a spell. Still, you have to agree 

that your snaking strands of silvery hair 

and walnut shell face might lead some 

to believe what was untrue,  

and isnt that a spell of its own, somehow? 

Two towels, one hand towel and a washcloth.

Surrounded by familiars — 

you had them by the dozens, didn’t you, 

though you would have called them your children, 

or your family or your friends, 

if you had called them anything at all, 

which never did. 

Two towels, one hand towel and a washcloth.

In exchange, a toothless grin, your eyes glittering 

from deep within an impenetrable forest, 

What was it your silence whispered in my ear?

wakening in me an earnest tenderness, curiosity, 

and that unique brand of pity reserved 

by the young for the fallen aged. 

Two towels, one hand towel and a washcloth,

until the day your familiars were removed,

and you, and nothing else was required.

© 2020 by Hannah Six