POETRY -
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We opened the drawers of his life and peeked in.
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Elbow Patches
by Kathryn Santana Goldman
My father was a private man. When he died, my mother and I were hesitant
to clear out his closet, nightstand, desk. As cautious custodians, we opened the drawers of his life and peeked in. Carefully unfolding hidden years under t-shirts and socks. A Cuban cigar box housed a toy taxi, a gnarled golf pencil, a rusted protractor, his grammar school graduation certificate, a picture of my grandfather who died when dad was 12, a lock of my baby hair. On the bottom, a yellowed envelope revealed images of foreign people and places. Merchant Marine stations without longitude or latitude. Silent black and white faces harboring untold tales. A handsome Mexican man, he stands next to a petite Japanese woman in an ornate kimono. Tokyo, 1947, written in Dad’s cursive on the back. I rescued his burgundy sweater from the Goodwill pile, the last one I gave him for Christmas. Old Spice lingered on the collar, a crumpled handkerchief lined a pocket. Elbow patches now cover the holes to keep it from unraveling. Like his life, it bears scars I will never understand. Wearing it, I listen for his whisper to identify the blond woman, wearing a bathing suit, somewhere on a beach. |
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