Most things don’t fall as beautifully as leaves.
From the soil in the front yard, the amber wells
And mingles with paper hearts laid in rows.
The basement holds orphaned, boxed-up books
to be sold, but nightly, a girl unpacks and sandwiches
them gently between ceiling tiles. Dad
won’t know, and she’ll come back for them. Dad
may know more than he lets on, but leaves
this girl to do as she knows how. The clock ticks like sand, which
makes the house seem silent, hearing. Suddenly big. Well,
it seems so. While the girl arranges and rearranges books,
the boy selects and preserves a single rose,
always quieter than his sisters. He will keep roses
on his dresser for as long as anyone can predict. Dad
might know of this too, but won’t say. In his book,
petals are more practical anyway. The scarlet leaves
have a place in his seasoned heart as well.
On the table, in the fridge, there are sandwiches,
from people who were over yesterday. There’ve been sandwiches
for months, from people they sort of know. Roses,
too, but those are from people who know them. Well
into November, brittle with the effort to stand, Dad
will try to make the small girl, baby girl, believe
in his steps. The other two are sighing in their books,
trying to keep their minds in the pages of their books.
They are what remains. And they are grateful for sandwiches,
they are, and they know they should appreciate raking leaves
“as a family,” but no one seems to remember the time they rose
to the occasion of babysitting, all the times, least of all Dad.
And trust me, it was an occasion. And plus, well,
What are we supposed to do anyway? But they mean well,
The boy, and the girl. And he does know that, their Dad.
And every morning, like church, he makes peanut butter sandwiches,
his favorite, and does his best to remember the times they rose
to their baby sister’s call, and that some people just need their books.
Or Mom’s. Some nights, baby girl cannot stand to watch him leave:
she’s just young enough to be cradled by Dad, is sandwiched
between abandoned books and weeping roses,
and this girl’s eyes well to think of anyone more who might leave.
