In the Parlor of the Saints
you paused before each portrait,
searching each calm face. You memorized
their soft expressions under threat
of sword and flame. Your cancer then
was little more than tropical depression—
ghostly smear across the breast-scan.
The doctor’s words a frightening blur.
You shivered, drew your shawl in close,
soothed by stories from a girlhood book:
martyred lives and selfless acts
of human faith through troubled times.
The kids back home, your man at work,
could wait. Words you couldn’t bear
to say. You lit a candle for Saint Jude,
Apostle of Impossible, patron saint
of hopeless hearts, and felt the strength
of his bright faith. Then fingertips
in holy water. Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
You strode across the parking lot,
a light rain pelting your coat.
Pistachios
We’d follow Dad into that dim, smokey room,
crowded with the sound of beer-fueled conversations,
the clink of glasses from the bar. He’d buy us
a bag of pistachios and two watered-down Cokes,
seat us at a table where he could keep an eye.
We’d settle in, crack them one by one, rewarded
by the mellow piney flavor, sting of salt on our tongues.
His booming laugh rolled over us now and again
above the strains of Glenn Campbell and Freddy Fender
as the shells stained our fingers red.
What’s a widower to do? Another Friday night
at the Knights of Columbus hall. We didn’t mind.
We followed him into that den like Hansel and Gretel
into the wood, escaping another night of cop show reruns
in a house now empty of comfort.
We’d tug at his sleeve when the snacks ran out,
beg more jukebox coins, entranced to discover
another side of him, flashing a grin among friends,
telling a joke or buying another round.
The way the men lit up in his presence.
Child Services might have cast a suspicious eye,
but I now recognize it as an act of love.
Treating himself to the comfort of friends,
another week of work and grief behind.
Bringing us along. Letting us watch from a distance.
