Musings
Pictures
Stories
In The Dark
Coming Home
As I Remember
Stand And Testify
Quiet As Quiet I Want
As I Remember
In The Field Before The Cutting
Behind the big chair where he always sat,
out of sight and enough out of the way
for me to watch him without his looking at me.
That was my spot.  A place that suited me.

There was a thick rug, matted in most spots,
that smelled like him.  Like his chair did.
Like his whole house -- I didn't like it.
It was a trailer.  Tin house.  Thin.

In a shed were fishing poles, big lures,
tackle boxes with little drawers that
folded out.  A little boat, a tattered tarp,
on a trailer on a dirt floor.  Dust.

He was a big man, wild white hair,
as I remember.  As luck would have it
I am like him, if I can trust my
mother's memory.  She said

they heard him saying -- he may have
been singing -- he was alone,
an old man crying, saying
he wanted to do great things.

When her hair turned white, wild like
her father's had, her sayings -- her
singing stopped -- were about
great things, out of sight.
Copyright 2006 Paul Schweer , All Rights Reserved.