<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><div dir="auto" style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><div dir="auto"><div dir="ltr"><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Listening To Brahm</span><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">s One, Four Months After Dad’s Death</span></div><div dir="ltr"><div class="page" title="Page 5"><div class="section" style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><div class="layoutArea"><div class="column"><p>Not surly, my bonds to this earth—<br>a lone purple crocus in our narrow backyard, the mulberry tree we girls used to climb<br>at the border between our parents’ properties, that old ailing oak tree that finally died<br>and went to punk, brown rabbits loitering<br>in ankle-high grass.</p><p>And my dad playing Brahms One on his stereo<br>in the living room after Thanksgiving dinner, white long-sleeved starched shirt with cuff links, falling asleep in his big chair, his better moments.</p><p>or the Christmas ritual of his reciting<br>the to and from of each gift, Mom handing it<br>to us as we sat in a semicircle around the evergreen, each child opening each gift, then passing it<br>around for the others to see.</p><p>I weep for the before-time—before houses were built in the woods behind our home, before we wore makeup or tried to impress men, before our hearts were broken—<br>when lilac blossoms smelled softly sweet<br>in our front yard, purple and white magnolia fragrant in spring and summer air.</p><p>And if I am ever to slip these bonds,<br>I will fight to preserve them un-severed,<br>I will live longer than 5000 years,<br>I will tell God that if I am to touch his face<br>at all, it had better be tanned dark brown<br>from centuries of sunlight, with moon-circles under his eyes from millennia of watching over and taking care of His children,<br>a slight smile moving across his face<br>as if to say, <span style="font-style: italic;">I remember everything too</span>.</p><p><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>- Patrice M. Wilson</p></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></body></html>