Читать книгу Dancing at Lake Montebello - Lynne Viti - Страница 16

The Good Father

The good father fell asleep on Saturdays

stretched out long on the couch.

Or he hoisted me onto his shoulders

or carried me into the ocean,

keeping a firm grip on me

which was fine by me.

The good father took me to church

let me play with my white prayer book

with the gold cross hidden in a place inside the cover.

He pointed to the altar in front

when the three bells rang —

the priest held the white circle bread high.

The good father slept in the big bed

on white sheets with blue lines.

He lay next to my mother, slender, dark-eyed.

Laughter came from their room at night.

He drove us to Florida in his gray car with three pedals.

I tried to stand up in the back all the way to Virginia.

Dirty water came out of the hotel’s faucet in Charleston.

We heard the trains whistle all night.

He brought me a Charlie McCarthy doll

so I could talk to everyone and not be so shy.

He brought me a doll so I could rock her

even though she was not my child.

He smelled of aftershave and orange bath soap.

I traced the scar on his forehead with my small hand.

And later, the sad father came in our house.

He wore a heavy brace on his leg.

A black steel bar ran up the side of the boot.

He walked with a wooden cane.

Bottles of pills filled the medicine chest.

He was early to bed — we had to be quiet then.