Steadfast in the kitchen,
solid as the formica counter
where he stood and ate toast
in a serious manner,
pressed bright oranges on an electric juicer,
then yelled upstairs,
“fresh squeezed orange juice!”
Handsome in tennis whites
skin like coffee, medium roast.
He could have been Egyptian,
think Omar Sharif:
charcoal brows with almond eyes,
graceful bones,
serious in repose.
Thoughtful in colloquy,
each word earned its place,
or was tossed aside,
for something more useful,
a habit that remains,
along with steady gaze-
startling in his grandson.
Lover of poetry,
especially Frost,
“Whose woods these are I think I know,”
“My little horse must think it queer,”
green book, first edition.
He left it to his grandson,
also a poet.
Seeker of order,
books on a shelf:
Hemingway, Kafka,
Tolstoy, Wiesel
placed on freshly painted bookcases,
authors arranged
in alphabetical harmony.
Keeper of the grounds:
he tilled his garden
in a doting manner,
mowed the green carpet,
raked crisp leaves into black plastic sacks,
then boasted:
“100 bags this year.”
His immigrant father,
in a studio photo,
wearing suit and cravat,
slender of stature,
steady expression,
noble demeanor:
the rug repairer.
Mother and father
crossed the Atlantic,
fleeing genocide,
“below deck in steerage,”
bitterly revealed-
a rare moment of sharing
his parents’ life story.
Holder of secrets,
lodged in a fragile heart;
he did his job:
custodian of my childhood,
guardian of the brood,
everlasting sentry,
steadfast at the door.
Roberta Goganian is inspired by quirky people, messy places in nature and the desire to document the beauty, pain and complexity of daily life. Her work has been published in The Lyric Magazine.
