Catch and release

My grandfather took me fishing 

only a couple of times

I did not like the taste of fish 

but enjoyed the feel of the reel

the quick release game of coordination 

and the swish of nylon line

zipping over the water, its little lure plunking 

into the stillness of our quiet fishing spot

it was play to aim farther,  more precisely

never leaving the bait to dangle 

long enough to entice any stream-dwellers 

before pulling in the line as swiftly as I could

I got lucky once or twice but threw them back 

for being too small

I squealed not wanting to touch the poor fish

not wanting to see their gasping mouths

snagged by my hook

when I had only wanted to play

Go to your room

I used to wish my
father would die
now I realize that living
is punishment enough

--

April PAD - Poetic Asides Day 8: family

Last time I looked in the mirror

The last time I looked in the mirror
I saw my father's face
the double chin
the puffy cheeks
the bloated discontent

But the eyes are mine

They see the years of yelling
and trails of tears, but also
the determined jaw
the open heart
the penetrating mind

They see how the mirror lies


---
April PAD Day 13 - last (blank)

The fall

The smell of burning leaves
outside couldn't overpower
the smell of burning croissants

wafting from the downstairs kitchen,
the chaos of
smoke detectors beeping incessantly loud,

while Mom, who never cooks,
grabbed a towel
from the counter to fan

the smoke from the charred
pastries out through
an open window to intermingle

with the smoldering pile of
red and yellow
leaves in our long driveway

behind Dad's old yellow VW
bug and beside
the spot my sister and

I liked to play hopscotch,
retreating to the
outdoors while my brother butchered

Mozart practicing his oboe every
night, our go-to
punching bag for sibling barbs

The beeping stopped but the
smell of smoke
lingered and I wondered if

the rest of dinner was
lost. If we'd
still be eating roast beef

or if Dad would call
Chen's for wonton
soup and takeout for five



--

Creative Bloomings prompt 168 - mix-and-match muse

Refuse

Mom never thought
the house was clean enough.
Because it wasn't.

Dad collected newspapers
and paper scraps he might
need some day.

Piles of randomness
gathered in every corner of
every single room

waiting to be
sorted through or purged once
and for all.

She'd secretly thin
the stacks and toss the
abandoned items that

filled our garage
into the outside recycle bins
on trash day.

He'd rage when
he realized that things were
missing, even though

he couldn't tell
you what had disappeared or
how long ago.

Dad clung to
those scraps as if they
were long-held memories,

cherished moments stolen
right from his chubby hands,
clinging as tightly

as a child
holding their security blanket and
begging you to

let it go.



--

Poetic Bloomings Memoir Project: Part 3: Welcome Home

Thicker than blood

You say you don't know
who your family is
that you were
given away
or
taken by
those afraid your
mother was unfit to
love you like we could


---

April PAD Day 20 - family

The brewery

My dad drank too much.
He shot bourbon at bars
and barbed insults at home.

The anger brewed inside him,
a biting mash of memories
aging in rows of barrels

running from breast to bowel,
pickling his insides as he
forced us each to drink

the poison of his past.

--

April PAD Day 8 - peaceful or violent

Back to Jack

Back to Jack

The way my father tells
it, Great-Grandpa Jack
was a lawyer in L.A.

back in the days when
the city was
really beginning to take shape.

He walked out of the
courthouse one day,
fed up with the system,

and across the street to
a construction site
and asked for a job.

He never looked back.


The way I remember it,
it was hot
where he lived. He was

frail and his head shook,
a subtle nodding,
as he smiled at me

and my little baby sister.
I squirmed, not
understanding why we were smiling

and sweating at this house.
Perhaps they knew
that death wasn't far off.

We drove away and never looked back.


I was 6 or so
when Dad whispered
to my mother in the

upstairs hallway that Great-Grandpa Jack
had passed. "What
does that mean?" I asked.

"He died. Funeral is Thursday,"
Dad said. I
wanted to go with him.

He couldn't understand why I
wanted to mourn
a man I barely knew.

Perhaps I just wanted to look back.



--

Poetic Bloomings Memoir Project
Part 8: Death, be not proud

The keys to happiness

We heard the jiggle of his keys
at the front door on the days
he got off work early.

"Just wanted to spend some
quality time with my kids,"
he said, patting our heads.

He kissed Mama long on the lips
before swooping us onto his
lap and into his laughter.



Three Word Wednesday: early, jiggle, quality

Bathing beauties

The faded photo
in Mother's hallway
reminds me of you.
Our bellies are full and
our cheeks are round
(we were unembarassed
by this back then) and we
laugh in the sun-filled
summer of youth.


PAD #16 - snapshot

6 o'clock

Papa clocked out at 6 p.m.
His inky fingerprints
were all he left behind.

He walked in at 6:14.
His meaty, grease-
stained fingers stroked our faces

and left the indelible stain
of fatherly love
on our faces and hearts.


PAD #9: time of day