With time and distance, I fear what I remember is broken:
fragments of thoughts and truths are only short stories,
fiction, that slithers into the ether of silence.
It is as though the shards of memory are a weight
I cannot grasp ahold of and embrace like my father,
who would wake each Saturday and drink coffee
while he made pancakes in the shapes of animals. The scent of his coffee
woke me from the anchor of sleep, the innocence of dreaming broken,
and I would exhale the memory of it, and descend the stairs to my father,
who patiently waited for me to tell a story,
any story, but my younger brother and I could hardly wait
for the pancakes, our groggy babble interrupting his morning silence,
but he would only smile and tell a story that broke his silence.
They were tales of bears and baboons whispered between sips of coffee,
whichever animal we wished for he would ease the weight
of the badder into the skillet, careful not to offer it broken,
and then poured syrup and spread butter like the setting of a story
he would not tell because I was only a boy, and he a young father.
Only years later would I consider what he never told me about his father,
who filled the house with roaring silence.
What was it like for him to grow up in a house devoid of stories
shared at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee,
or told on camping trips beneath a moon broken
by clouds and lightning? I can only imagine the weight
of memory that both deepens and lessens each year, of no longer waiting
for his father’s approval that he never received. What kind of father
only offers steel eyed stares and a broken
narrative of disappointment and frustrating silence?
A father who only sucks the butts of Chesterfields and scalding black coffee
instead of offering a fantasy world of stories
made in animal pancakes. It is no wonder my father shares few of these stories.
Memories that hung like the weight
of the world on his shoulders as he woke early each Saturday, drank his coffee,
and made his two sons breakfast. He could never ask his father
how to raise two sons in a world without silence,
how to ensure that the memory of childhood is not broken.
We are all broken in some way, yet bound by stories
that defy the silence. Each day I wait
for another chance to see my father and with him share a cup of coffee.
3 comments:
First, I tell you that I see my husband's father as you describe your grandfather. The image is clear and unbroken, and your question, What kind of father only offers steel eyed stares and a broken narrative of disappointment and frustrating silence? A father who only sucks the butts of Chesterfields and scalding black coffee instead of offering a fantasy world of stories
made in animal pancakes" rings so true. I can smell the coffee and cigarette smoke.
That said, I went to Padgett's Handbook of Poetic Forms, and smiled at how you've worked the end repetition of your sesitina, a six lined unrhymed poem with a pattern of repeated lines. I like how you switched out "weight" and "wait" -- and how the word father is repeated so often, as your father, and your father's father. You do not call him grandfather.
Having just read your memoir, I now feel I have a deeper understanding of your father. Your ending lines work so well: "We are all broken in some way, yet bound by stories that defy the silence. Each day I wait for another chance to see my father and with him share a cup of coffee." Thank you, Sean, for posting this poem.
(And no. No feedback on improvement.)
Sean, I am mesmerized by the fluidity of your words. Every time I hear or read something you've written the words weave a tapestry around my head and I find myself visualizing the very images you are describing.
And the very thing you describe as missing from your grandfather's relationship to his son and grandsons is the very thing I treasure about my own grandpa. I basked in his story telling because I had no cousins or siblings my own age.
(PS. pancakes are made with batter or was that intentional as part of the rhyme scheme?)
Your writing always touches me, in some way or another. I appreciate your mother's passion for words and her ability to share that with you, so you, in turn can share it with us.
In your first line...I fear what I remember is broken: is such a great lead into the persona of your grandfather. Have you ever wondered why he was broken? I'm curious. Was it the time in history? A child of the depression, perhaps? Too much work, no father role model of his own, as you were blessed with? I know several men of approximately the same time, and many seem to have similar characteristics which has always made me wonder...why?
One of the things I loved about this piece and your memoir is how they show your own father's strength of spirit and his appreciation of life and his role in the scheme of things. Thank you for sharing such personal memories.
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