What He Gave Me

When I was young as spring

he took me to the lake

showed me how to thread worms

taught me to wait patiently

for the gentle bobbing tug

of futures dangling from lines.

On weekends of scattered memories

we hunted through wet woods

his quiet steps guiding mine

father's whisper near my ear

the patient art of stillness

his hand steadying my aim.

At the zoo between enclosures

we fed purple grapes to monkeys

their small hands like mine

reaching through metal bars

taking what we offered them

a gentle transaction of trust.

In his red Sprite convertible

wind whipping through my hair

steering wheel beneath small hands

his strong arms surrounding me

guiding turns with quiet instructions

laughter spilling into open air.

Now at eighty-seven years

his steps have grown more measured

hands that taught me everything

move with deliberate purpose now

while my love expands further

deeper than any ocean floor.

Weekends were enough somehow

to build this bridge between us

throwing spirals across green fields

catching futures in leather mitts

teaching me without speaking

how love needs no conditions.