Listening To Brahms One, Four Months After Dad’s Death - Patrice M. Wilson

[Lawrence Robinson]

Listening To Brahms One, Four Months After Dad’s Death
Not surly, my bonds to this earth—
a lone purple crocus in our narrow backyard, the mulberry tree we girls used to climb
at the border between our parents’ properties, that old ailing oak tree that finally died
and went to punk, brown rabbits loitering
in ankle-high grass.

And my dad playing Brahms One on his stereo
in the living room after Thanksgiving dinner, white long-sleeved starched shirt with cuff links, falling asleep in his big chair, his better moments.

or the Christmas ritual of his reciting
the to and from of each gift, Mom handing it
to us as we sat in a semicircle around the evergreen, each child opening each gift, then passing it
around for the others to see.

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—
when lilac blossoms smelled softly sweet
in our front yard, purple and white magnolia fragrant in spring and summer air.

And if I am ever to slip these bonds,
I will fight to preserve them un-severed,
I will live longer than 5000 years,
I will tell God that if I am to touch his face
at all, it had better be tanned dark brown
from centuries of sunlight, with moon-circles under his eyes from millennia of watching over and taking care of His children,
a slight smile moving across his face
as if to say, I remember everything too.

	- Patrice M. Wilson
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