Memory

Most of us grow up with a complicated relationship to our fathers, that figure of power in our lives who is often absent at work, who most of us try to impress and many of us have difficulty communicating with, who nonetheless makes a profound impression on us, one we sometimes don’t fully appreciate until he is gone. With Father’s Day approaching, the following poem touches on the feelings evoked when we pick up one of the tools of his trade we might have found in a box in the garage, and the memories that awaken. Hope you all enjoy this Memorial Day weekend.

 

Stethoscopic

 

So convinced of the existence

of a rattle, my father made

my brother kneel in the back seat

of the Buick and move the stethoscope

across the window, the top of the seat,

the ledge below the glass,

as they drove around the neighborhood.

Nothing came through the long black tube

but my brother’s fear of  being seen.

 

Alone, stiff in the vinyl chair

at the bedside, my mother knew

the moment of my father’s death

without a stethoscope. Nor did

she ring for a nurse, but sat frozen

while the heating vent at the window

blew the curtains slightly.

Then she bowed.

 

I found his old one coiled in the cabinet.

I put it on as a curiosity,

listened to my heartbeat, then laid it back.

I don’t know what I’d expect to hear

inside the slide of my family’s breathing,

or what to imagine that doesn’t make a sound.

Where would I place that cold knob

to listen for devotion?

What would I set my finger upon

to catch the regular rhythm of hope?

 

Jack Stewart

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