I have the table you built my mother.
It is long, pine, and golden.
It holds our food and our forearms.
It gleams under lamplight while we gather at night
and shines every sunny weekend morning,
while we sit with breakfast and coffee.
I have the breadbox you built me too.
It is full of sourdough bread.
It is often full of sourdough bread.
There are pictures of you here,
but mostly I see you in these things
and through the weepy eyes of memory.
I see you steering the boat toward the island
the small sandy one with the scratchy grass.
I see you beside cards and a cribbage board.
I see you cutting open oyster shells
for a pot on the stove. I see you, after dinner,
with a toothpick between your fingers
and your hand wrapped around
a mug of hot coffee.
I remember staying at your cabin
in the mountains - you, Gram, Sam, Mom,
and I. I remember you poured a bowl of cereal
and when you went to fetch the milk
there wasn't any. There was only cream.
At that moment, you became like a little boy
giddy for the excuse of a treat. Maybe because
it was like when you were a little boy,
long before milk fat was measured, labeled,
and scorned. I can see you sitting at the small table,
tipping the short carton over your bowl, covering
your cereal with sweet thick milk.
Then spoonful upon spoonful into your mouth,
then tipping the bowl to your lips.
We named our son, Leo, after you,
Grampa Lou.I remember when I told you.
Leo was still silently inside of me.
Do you remember?
It was months before illness spread
across the world, sending us all into
separation and isolation.
I remember what you said.
It was just what I guessed you would say.
"You know my name isn't Leo, right?"
Then a side smile. Then gratitude.
Leo turns one the day after tomorrow.
Tonight you are alone in the hospital
awaiting surgery. You are most certainly asleep
as it is nearly midnight, but maybe the television is on,
color and sound in the cold, bare room.
You have your phone beside you, and perhaps too, a book.
I don't think you'll see this until much later,
but I want to think about you now.
So wherever in time you are, join me
and imagine that you are not in a hospital bed,
but on your boat.
(It doesn't matter which one, just pick your favorite.)
Now imagine you and Gram are on the top deck.
Breathe in that warm salty air.
And let's imagine that it's summer.
Far ahead of you is the sun.
She is dipping toward the horizon
as if sinking into the sea.
The sky is a watery blur of
red, pink and orange.
The only other boats you can see are sailboats
far to the left and far to the right.
That's where the rest of us are, beneath
those flapping capes, keeping our eyes
on you.
Gram steers with ease. She has her hand
on your shoulder or your browned knee.
Jazz music plays. You have a drink
in your hand. Scotch. Below you, the Atlantic
moves in its cold, dark, sparkling way.
And look over there - whales! Whales are bursting
from the water and crashing in the most wild
and joyful dance. And look at the birds - so many seagulls!
and those small sea birds, the black ones who flap and float
and follow boats and catch fish and
fly and fly and fly as if life were so simple
because life is so simple.
Isn't it?
Isn't life a journey
(with many interruptions of sorrow and noise and war)
a journey toward love and quiet and peace?
I think it is.
So Grampa,
from my small sailboat to you
I send you love and quiet and peace
and also,
hope for a few more days at sea.
