retirement to be
raucous revelry.
Instead,
it was the wind down
of a weary body
saying the decades
of five, six, seven
days of work each week
would be enough.
I remember strong hands,
the company t-shirt beneath
layers of flannel,
always a pocket for your cigarettes
and on particularly cold days,
a carhartt jacket: your uniform.
A flat pencil wedged between
a too small black stocking cap
and your ear,
a seafoam green work van
with an ever-present metallic tang of copper --
a scent that still transports me home,
wedged into your passenger seat
amidst boxes of joints, pipes,
and sandwich wrappers from lunch.
The other day,
I held your hand as I
walked past you in the living-room,
your gnarled fingers you have
literally worked to the bone,
joints that don't bend like they used to,
some that don't bend at all.
These were hands that drew dreams
on the back of envelopes,
a legal pad,
whatever scrap paper you could find --
dreams wedged between
phone numbers for jobs,
measurements,
sketches for a better life.
These hands, these drawings,
taught me to work hard and hope
and dream,
to figure out a way,
first on paper then
by trial and error,
our homes filled
with half-done projects:
my inheritance.
There was a lightness
in your voice yesterday
when I called to ask
if you were finally retired yet.
You were,
and trusty Millard Van #71
had come home with you permanently, all
clean and ready for a fresh start.
the perfect beginning
of a retirement in the new year.
That would be enough.
My dearest papa,
may you enjoy the rest
of retirement. You, more
than anyone else I know,
deserve to revel in time.
