TENDING
For Dad
Mom gave me paper dolls to mother
before she left to tend to Grandpa. So much to do
in the new house--the carpet
still a roll on the hardwood floor--but Daddy would wait
for Mom to return from laying her father to rest
before laying it wall to wall.
There was a garden to uncover first, rocks
to rake before seeds could be planted--beans,
carrots, lettuce, squash and radishes. I hated
the rock-picking and weeds; later, snapping beans
into a bowl, I wondered why he fussed
over poles and vines only to give so much
of his reward away. "Seeds in the ground
multiply like rabbits," he'd say,
"we'll have plenty," and hand me a packet
to plant in neat rows. Forty springs
and twenty of my own gardens later
I drove by the house. Dad's bed was gone,
the space now patched with grass.
Easier to mow than defend young
bean plants against rabbits or children
who would velcro the leaves to their t-shirts
and shorts, pretending they were the beanstalk
Jack climbed. The siding begged for a coat
of paint. I almost stopped and offered
to do the job for free.
August 22, 2005
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