WHAT MADE MY FATHER HUM by Matt Flickinger
My father would enter our home
through the front door, before the evening.
He would give my mother a kiss
before he crouched with his arms spread
a smiling cloud waiting for his center.
We would run to him, my sister and me
and fill him and be filled and wrap arms
all of us squeezing and closing our eyes.
Before we would stop squeezing,
he would hum one sighed note
down through his tired nose.
We would feel the vibration in our chests,
my sister and me, my mother behind us.
Outside our front door was a mystery
my sister and I would explore,
never finding what made my father hum
or vibrate and wrap us up in his arms so tightly.
We only found our trees,
our wind, our eyes.
Before he would change jackets,
load his pipe from his reddish pouch,
before he would sit sideways in his chair
to strike a match to light the thing,
to sit with his feet up, to read the paper,
my father would squeeze and hum
a single note.
//ww
through the front door, before the evening.
He would give my mother a kiss
before he crouched with his arms spread
a smiling cloud waiting for his center.
We would run to him, my sister and me
and fill him and be filled and wrap arms
all of us squeezing and closing our eyes.
Before we would stop squeezing,
he would hum one sighed note
down through his tired nose.
We would feel the vibration in our chests,
my sister and me, my mother behind us.
Outside our front door was a mystery
my sister and I would explore,
never finding what made my father hum
or vibrate and wrap us up in his arms so tightly.
We only found our trees,
our wind, our eyes.
Before he would change jackets,
load his pipe from his reddish pouch,
before he would sit sideways in his chair
to strike a match to light the thing,
to sit with his feet up, to read the paper,
my father would squeeze and hum
a single note.
//ww