Behind the Radio

In his yearbook, he showed a flair for words

His quote about the garden

Seemed profound for a seventeen year old boy

The book was among

Sketchbooks and license plates

In the drawers behind the old radio

With a letter from a girl

Who loved his strong muscled arms

But ran away with the history professor

She signed it with a little heart

There are sketches

A page in green colored pencil

About his first night in Ireland

He loved to write

I love to write

He loved to draw

I love to draw

I carefully stack up the books

And papers

And slide across the slippery wooden floor

Trip down the steep dark staircase

To sit down in a chair

At the round kitchen table

He has a mug of coffee in one hand

His thumb gashed from the knife

That slipped in the halibut

His hair is darker

Than the curls of his senior picture

But there's the same angular nose

I recognize now

My eyebrows in all their

Thickness

It seems strange

The past and the

Present

Roiling in the little kitchen

I pour myself a glass of milk

In a small painted cup

Dad, I found some of your old things.

Oh really

Can you tell me about Ireland?