My father’s strength
My father’s strength
wasn’t a muscle-popping
sweat-bursting
physical strength
but something else—
more interior
(spiritual does’t describe it)
more like stubbornness,
a refusal to give up,
an insistence on taking joy in life,
in every moment before death
wipes the slate clean.
It was not giving in to despair,
not letting unexpected events,
personal tragedies, steal his zest
for life
like losing his younger brother
in the war, like losing Mom to cancer
after 25 years of marriage.
He kept going through grief-stricken
days, through tear-filled weeks and months,
through years of longing for different outcomes.
I don’t know where his strength came from.
I don’t know if he continued to pray to God
or if his prayers fell down a silent well
and his beliefs in God shattered.
He never spoke about faith or prayer
except once after mom died
wanting to know if
I still believed in God.
He was so strong, even in his eighties after
his kidneys failed, and he had to go on dialysis
three times a week for four hours each day.
Even then he overcame the disappointment of losing
his kidneys, of having to be hooked up to machine,
half the week tethered to a device that helped him
stay alive for another thirteen years
because he so wanted to stay alive,
because he so wanted to live,
because he so wanted to savor each moment
before it slipped through his grasp and
was gone forever.
Brothers
Do you ever think of how the two of us are linked,
how we spent time in our mother’s womb learning
the same language, feeling the same throb of her heart,
beginning our lives the same way
or how similar we look—brothers with the same
features, the same timbre to our voices,
the same bone structure—as if we are carbon copies
of each other, the same, yet different
even though your hair is curly and mine
wavy-straight, your eyes brown, mine blue,
you an inch taller (maybe, maybe not!),
our hearts beating as one
the memory of Mom’s heart beating with ours,
as if we share one heart,
two different people—
brothers.
After
You were the younger,
so you could leave home
after Mom’s death to pursue
your dreams
while I was the elder, unable
or unwilling to leave Dad alone,
feeling it was my responsibility
to look after him,
to make sure he was okay.
And, so, instead of leaving home
I stayed (maybe using Dad as an excuse
to conceal my fear of leaving).
I watched you go, proud of your courage,
your ability to pursue your dreams,
doing what I wanted to do
but couldn’t…
Instead, I waited for your letters to arrive,
those thin blue aerograms,
and tried to make peace
with Dad.
I think we were both angry at God
for taking Mom away, and angry at each other
for feeling the need to preserve
what was gone,
but neither one of us
could let go
or admit
we had to let go.
A secret code
How did you know
where the football
would land when
I sent you on
a pass pattern—
Go long!—
and threw the ball
into the air, knowing
you’d be there to catch it
in your arms?
It was as if we had
our own secret code—
our own secret language—
that only the two of us
knew how to speak.
There were no words—
there are still no words—
it was like an invisible thread
connecting us, no matter
where we are, how far apart
or how near.
We know, somehow,
where the other is…
and where he will be…
as if we’re equipped
with a magic telegraph wire
that sends out signals
only the two of us can hear
Where are you?
I’m here.
And you?
I’m here, too.
The sound of milk bottles
The sound of milk bottles
tinkled like wind chimes
when the milkman came
early in the morning.
It was always dark
when he climbed
the back porch steps
and left our order of milk
and eggs in the metal box.
The only sign of his visit
the trail of boot prints
he left on each step
in the snow.
Bruce Black holds an MFA from Vermont College. He is the author of Writing Yoga (Shambhala), and his poetry, personal essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The MidAtlantic Review, The Amethyst Review, Write-Haus, Bearings, Poetry Super Highway, Poetica, The Lehrhaus, Soul-Lit, and elsewhere. He lives in Highland Park, IL.
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