I wrote this years ago, but the photo made me dig it up to share:
Out in the Garage
I bought a house for my daughter and I to live in after two years in different apartments and I desperately wanted to give her a home that will grow in her memories as a place of comfort where she will know that she belongs but it wasn’t until I pulled up the garage door to that smell of old air that dusty cut grass lawn mower engine oil enamel based paint fumes mingled with wet cardboard boxes intoxicating memories of grandpa, dad, and husband who have all gone with the years but come back with that waft of yesterday’s odor that welcomed us and let us know we’re home.
OK...if Patricia can leave a poem on the fiction site, so can I. :)
RUSTIC PLACES IN MY MIND
an image a flash my mind recalls the smell of straw the swoosh of swallows the specks of dust dancing in sunbeams and the tiniest of mews coming from places hidden deep within all accompanied by the ever present crooning of the likes of Conway Twitty and Tammy Wynette on the old transistor Dad never turned off
It was a dark place. Corbin Jenks visited it often. Sometimes to get a tool, or a part. Sometimes to get a switch for his father to whip him. There were times Corbin went in there after his father died and screamed until his lungs hurt worse than any whipping he remembered.
Antoine Jenks wasn't a brutal man by nature. God-fearing church goer. A successful farmer. A loving husband, doting father to Corbin's sister who could do no wrong, and an impatient teacher to the son who more than anything wanted his father's approval. Antoine's problem was simple. He drank a bit. Correction: He drank a lot. And when Antoine drank a lot, he was a lousy son-of-a-bitch.
If he brought the wrong tool, Corbin was hollered at. If a chore wasn't done quickly and thoroughly he got whipped like an old mule. And when Antoine brought Corbin out to the shed. Corbin knew there was hell to pay.
A father's love and approval was all that was required of him. But it was never offered; it was never an option. So the day his fallen hero fell off of his tractor clutching his chest, Corbin watched him writhe and gasp, until he gasped no more.
So that morning they put Antoine under the soil, Corbin went out to the shed one last time. He felt this need to hang around for a while. To collect his thoughts. To exorcise him demons. But, his thoughts were his demons. So he hung around long enough to end those thoughts. And when they cut the rope to bring him down, Corbin was finally equal to his father. Side-by-side, under the soil.
I wrote this years ago, but the photo made me dig it up to share:
ReplyDeleteOut in the Garage
I bought a house
for my daughter and I
to live in
after two years
in different apartments
and I desperately wanted
to give her a home
that will grow in her memories
as a place of comfort
where she will know
that she belongs
but it wasn’t until
I pulled up the garage door
to that smell of old air
that dusty
cut grass
lawn mower
engine oil
enamel based paint fumes
mingled with wet cardboard boxes
intoxicating memories
of grandpa,
dad,
and husband
who have all gone
with the years
but come back
with that waft
of yesterday’s odor
that welcomed us
and let us know
we’re home.
"that will grow in her memories
ReplyDeleteas a place of comfort
where she will know
that she belongs"
This is especially touching, Patricia. The whole poem is so tangible through your sensory details.
Thank you, for sharing it with us!
Smiles!
OK...if Patricia can leave a poem on the fiction site, so can I. :)
ReplyDeleteRUSTIC PLACES IN MY MIND
an image
a flash
my mind recalls
the smell of straw
the swoosh of swallows
the specks of dust
dancing in sunbeams
and the tiniest of mews
coming from places
hidden deep within
all accompanied by
the ever present
crooning of the likes of
Conway Twitty
and Tammy Wynette
on the old transistor
Dad never turned off
No you can't. You do fiction quite well. Keep the poetry to those poetry places. Give me a little story; you have one in you. ;)
DeleteA nice piece though.
DeleteSorry...I'll keep my poems from straying in the future.
DeleteOUT TO THE SHED
ReplyDeleteIt was a dark place. Corbin Jenks visited it often. Sometimes to get a tool, or a part. Sometimes to get a switch for his father to whip him. There were times Corbin went in there after his father died and screamed until his lungs hurt worse than any whipping he remembered.
Antoine Jenks wasn't a brutal man by nature. God-fearing church goer. A successful farmer. A loving husband, doting father to Corbin's sister who could do no wrong, and an impatient teacher to the son who more than anything wanted his father's approval. Antoine's problem was simple. He drank a bit. Correction: He drank a lot. And when Antoine drank a lot, he was a lousy son-of-a-bitch.
If he brought the wrong tool, Corbin was hollered at. If a chore wasn't done quickly and thoroughly he got whipped like an old mule. And when Antoine brought Corbin out to the shed. Corbin knew there was hell to pay.
A father's love and approval was all that was required of him. But it was never offered; it was never an option. So the day his fallen hero fell off of his tractor clutching his chest, Corbin watched him writhe and gasp, until he gasped no more.
So that morning they put Antoine under the soil, Corbin went out to the shed one last time. He felt this need to hang around for a while. To collect his thoughts. To exorcise him demons. But, his thoughts were his demons. So he hung around long enough to end those thoughts. And when they cut the rope to bring him down, Corbin was finally equal to his father. Side-by-side, under the soil.