10 years

This piece started out years ago in a creative writing class. It was originally a short non-fiction essay and after encouragement from my professor, it was trimmed down and turned into a short short (as he liked to call them). After more encouragement, I entered the short short into a contest and it was published. A few years later, I played around with it and turned it into an even shorter poem. I like all of the versions, but I've never shared this version with anyone beyond M and a few friends. Considering this is my blog, it may sound strange for me to say I don't share my writing with many people, but it's true. I have no problems posting about my life for anyone to see, but when it comes to any poetry or personal writing I've done, I rarely put it out there. I especially avoid sharing any writing that centers around my father because I don't like to talk about his death - it still hurts.

It's the tenth anniversary of his death.

The last time I talked to my father I was eighteen; he never got to see the woman I would become at twenty-eight.

I still really miss him. :(

_____________________
Homage

Part I

The smell of Lava
takes me back to my childhood.
Everyday, my father would come home,
kiss my mother hello,
head to the sink,
and scrub his hands with Lava.
His hands were always streaked black
with the grease of his hard labor-
building engines for jets.

As my father walked to the bathroom,
I would trail behind him,
resurrecting the events of my day.
From my childhood Sesame Street-watching hours,
told with breathless excitement,
to my teenage angst,
mumbled through blinding tears,
there were always our faces
staring back at us in the mirror-
one tanned and creased with wisdom,
one pale and freckled with youth.

I would watch him take his Lava
from its special plastic soap holder
that was kept in cupboard,
then put his calloused hands under the hot water
to build up a great green lather.
The soap would slowly tumble
over and over
in his large hands
that had just worked for many hours
so that another could fly.

He would meticulously
wash the stains
of that day's labor away from his hands.
When he was satisfied with his cleansing,
he would wipe away the stray drips
from the sink
and put away his special bar of Lava.
My story of the day would end,
along with his ritual.

But there would still be dirt
under his fingernails.
Dirt that would never wash away,
not even with Lava.

Part II

I slowly opened the cupboard
with the peeling yellow paint.
I could remember a time when
it had been lavender; before that, peach.
But one thing had always stayed the same-
the cracked soap holder with the green bar of Lava.

I reached out to pick it up,
as a salty drip ran off my nose
and splashed onto the soap,
creating a spot of bright green in the midst
of its dull coloring.
The soap stuck to the holder-
it was crusty and dried
from not having been used in a little over a year.

I turned on the water as hot as it would go,
letting it sting my hands.
I looked in the mirror:
the echoes of my father
remained in my dark brown eyes, thin lips, and small nose.

The mirror started to steam
from the heat of the water,
and burned my hands with its intensity.
I slowly drew my eyes back to the bar
as its lather encased my
smooth manicured hands.