it’s always funny
the things that you
end up remembering
about someone
like that he used
irish spring soap
except, no he didn’t
i used irish spring
and so does my grandfather
which i know because
he’s the one that gave
me the soap when mine
ran out
i know where that soap is
upstairs in a cabinet
lined up at least three across
and four deep
went looking for the hair-dryer
so i could more quickly finish
coating a used canvas in alternating
layers of black and white paint
and got lost in the smell
of irish spring soap
and that made me think of
my father for some inexplicable reason
he never used irish spring soap
but he did use flower scented perfume
and those scents are arguably close
and i wondered if i was looking
for something in that cupboard
that it couldn’t offer me
and i wore these two
beat-to-shit leather jackets
that my father gave me
from middle school to high school
along with a sweater that
clung to how he smelled
even after i’d washed it
i got rid of those two jackets
and the sweater
earlier this year
realized that looking at them
only made me sad
and maybe also a little angry
i kept that pocketknife
he gave me, though
and a stuffed bunny rabbit
and i wonder why
there is a practicality
in keeping the pocketknife
and maybe a certain kind of
sentimentality in the bunny
but who am i to say, really
why i kept these two things
and not the leather jackets
and sweater
maybe i am looking for something
that none of these objects can
offer me
maybe they remind me
of my father
in that he has nothing to offer me
and even if he did
i wouldn’t pick up the phone
-
Author:
Boaz Priestly (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 14th, 2020 21:01
- Category: Letter
- Views: 38
Offline)
Comments2
Between the lines i read the melancholy of regret. Regret that whilst you want to love your father's memory, there are reasons which are all to real in your memory impeding that love.
The way you have expressed this here shows mastery of the poetic art.
Deeply personal but easily relateable for any son with a troubled parental past.
Wasn't too sure how I felt about this particular poem when I typed it out yesterday. It's a bit more jumbled than usual, and deviates from the captain and the bard entirely. It's kind of a nice change to briefly write about something else. Thank you for your compliments, and for reading my work.
brilliantly raw and reads like a stream of consciousness diary entry, as if the reader is discovering the twists and turns of your musings at the same time as you are,
I really like the voice and the consistent flow of this write, I think you may have a perfect-fit style for first person young adult novels, if you ever think of venturing your artistry in that direction, (relatable and empathetic voice, with distinct perspectives of creative imagery)
as for father's: I suggest the psychological take would be your refusal of the jacket and sweater is in correlation to you outgrowing the childhood fantasy of becoming 'a man' like your father (as in walking in his shoes/clothes and acting like him). Because sooner or later that 'man' we projected was 30% reality and 70% our excuses for his short comings.
Still though: that 30% is what produced 50% of all the good within us... In one way or another.
Thank you for the compliments!
I do actually write long-form fiction, though mostly in third person. I finished a short story a few months ago that was written in the first person, and am quite proud of it.
You're pretty spot on with outgrowing being a man like my father. I've spent more than half my life being very careful to not be like him at all, and have been successful, if I do say so myself.
Still, writing about him is cathartic as hell.
I am glad you enjoyed my work.
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