It's Still Life

A Few Thoughts That Don’t Include Azaleas

His white stained handkerchief,
and the hat Mum knitted him,

she made him a new one every year, and she stuck it in his Christmas stocking.

The safety pin from his work overalls,
a coin he touched, and a brass button,

his paint brushes and canvases,
and a piece of amber with a fly in it.

My sister collected it up, his memorabilia,
in a box as if tokens for good luck,

and then carried the boxes up into the loft, taped them shut and labelled each one “Dad’s Stuff”.

I don’t need his coins or buttons
or his knitted hat, although I’d like

that piece of amber with the fly in it,
because it’s just amazing, but …

I remember Dad always smelled like honey, petrichor, and warm strawberries.

His hands were calloused, rough,
fingers strong, and arms muscled.

His arms and back were covered
in shrapnel scars and incisions.

His eyes were iced blue. They frightened some people, haunted eyes some said.

But his eyes could illuminate the night,
and lead me home when I was lost.

A woman asked Dad for his handkerchief
after he cleaned blood from his finger with it.

Just one look from him, and she left.

Dad once told me, We come from a long line
of fruitcakes. I adore fruitcake.

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Poems/prose ©Misky 2023. 227 words (1 minute reading time)