Memory

he'd say, "let's tickle the old ivories," and we'd sit, he and i, cramped on the creaky piano stool he built himself, hymnal splayed between. his finger pads would fly, crescendo up the scale, warm-up. p. 52 waits with shaped notes--diamond, heart, circle--old-time methods for old-time songs, and a rugged cross stands solo. i sing, feeble, sweet, unsure, but happy and believing.

there were other times i remember happiness- walking down to his shop, viennese cafe smoking pale white tendrils against winter smells of sawdust and vicious cold, my hand burning around the mug.

or, that summer: his beat-up blue ford, truckbed ready for haulin' and workin', us 3 girls squished inside the cab. we were at the paradoxical age of 12: still young enough to gobble greedily the mountain dews and m&ms and old enough to begin experimenting with eyeshadow and furtive glances to see if any of the workers noticed us.
summers and winters end, and the world is changed after.