September 24

In the autumn I think of Dad.
When baked oak leaves turn brittle and brown.
Sweet maple trees in variegated colors flame a glistening blue sky.
Crispy, papery leaves crinkle around my ankles, sounding like taffeta petticoats.

"The bus is coming down Nahatan Street!" is the morning cry,
and I carry Daddy's love in a paper bag to school.

Nighttime comes early in winter, earlier than Dad.
I still smell the wood of the windowpane, see the steam of my breath on the glass,
and I smell Mamma's cooking when at last I hear
"Daddy's home!"
I come running. "Did you bring me anything?"

In the springtime, we'd drive to the Dover Dump down the bumpety road
and to Norwood for Saturday errands.
We'd drive to Dorchester to visit Gramma on Sundays.
We'd drive to the library on Tuesday nights.
The Bomber, the Lark, the Studebaker wagon, the Chevys.
I'd scramble in the back seat. The scents of the spices he sold were heavy in the cars.

In the lingering summertime dusk I think of Dad.
I hear the backyard crickets, spot fireflies, recite to the first evening star.
Tomatoes were planted that day,
or we all returned sunburned and sandy from Cohasset Beach.

My dad makes me laugh. My dad thinks I'm beautiful.
His love lives in me still, every day.

--Sept. 27, 1985