I am the son of a coffin maker; death will have no surprises for me.
This was my life: Rise before birds open their eyes,
smooth the blanket while she still sleeps.
Fold corners hospital style.
Year in and year out, this was my life:
Heat oatmeal left for me on the stove,
press toilet paper to my nicked chin,
walk one mile, lunch-pailed, warm-coated and wool-capped
to Heminway & Bartlett Silk Thread Factory,
be on the shop floor by six.
I could be measuring oak boards for
grieving families, I told myself,
always glad of the quit-work whistle
at noon on Saturdays,
buy a bag of Necco wafers for the kids.
I have lived more years than my father
and his father before him, both gone before 55.
I persisted through one world war and then another,
and a sort of peace that follows,
that settles into old lives.
Not sure if my wife still looks on me with love,
I know my coneflowers turn blue faces to the sun.
My tomatoes drink gratefully from my garden hose
before she cuts, peels, slices, herbs, and simmers
them for soup waiting for me on the stove.
(for my grandfather, Charles Sweeney, 1885?-1955))
A flowing summary of a long and precisely measured out life, with a few subtle wry comments such as ‘the sort of peace which follows’, neatly embedded. I enjoyed this.
The life story hooks Trish, not least because you have got the considering voice of the man…the ‘not sure’ and '‘I know’ and ‘sort of’. The poem travels from that nailed on assertion about death to the humanity of ‘surviving’ a life. I like his stubborn tenacity of ‘persistence’. I also like that sense of competitive triumph of surviving longer than his father/grandfather. A man who persevered. The work clock, the daily patterning, neatly measured with the precision of ‘folded corners’ and one mile work. Then there is the marital/family relationship: the sleeping arrangements, the preparation of food by the wife, the treats for the kids. Enough detail, not overloaded, to give insight on his domestic life. My fav detail was the non-electric shave with the nicked chin. The poem delivers authenticity (even in the unsureness of the birth date, and incredibly long life!) The surviving context of war was another thread to that opening assertion. I was confused by the continuity of time in the closure, but appreciated the warming aspect. I guess there was a lot of separation in their lives with food being left for him.
Yes, there was a gulf between them (I never knew either, to my regret), my gf had a very hard life with some family tragedies so Eugene O’Neill-awful I can only approach from a distance…I’m writing a series about him.He was also resigned to his life, I believe, and loved his children. I believe he was grateful for his factory job, owned a house and raised a family all through the depression. Thank you for letting me talk about him here. I appreciate the read, and I think I see what you mean about the continuity of ti=me in the closure. I’ll see what I can do about that.
Very grateful for your read and your carefully thought out response, Phil.
Thank you for your tactful comment about the typo at the end, which you were too tactful to call out as a typo… he certainly didn’t die in 1995, but 1955)