Pa
By Patrick T. Reardon
.
Drive Chronicles Avenue straight out
of downtown for three miles to the
railroad bridge, empty as a Roman
ruin, turn right toward the spray-paint
chaos of the Grass Lake rocks, right
again onto Esther Road, to 135, and
there’s tight-wound Pa sitting on the
dusk porch while nervous fireflies,
trespassers, skitter, knowing nothing
else, around the maypole of his chair.
.
From time to time, he slaps out with
a grimed 1940’s-gas station flyswatter,
and, when he connects, steps daintily on
the stunned creature with the sole of his
right boot, drags that sole toward him
along the porch wood, leaving, godlike,
quick-dying sparkle. We keep out of his way.
.
Stolid Ma encases herself in jobs to be
done as if rest is a gap in breathing.
.
Her grave is out on 12th Street, just east
of Mystic Boulevard, in the plot she shares
with Pa as she shared their bed of relief.
.
Pa died slowly, silently, from a wasting,
pale as smoke, fearful even more of death
than of life, with no caressing god to
provide welcome, just a blank white he’d
glimpse here and there, now and then,
and shudder, lock up inward. No escape.
.
Garden of Eden Groceries, the family firm,
still opens and closes each day, weekends
included, Christmas excepted. Pa ran a tight
ship, each an assigned post: sister, brother,
niece, nephew, in-law, cousin, crowd of
vague similar faces: Jane-Joan-June-Jean,
Garry-Larry-Gerry-Joe. Everyone’s head turned.
.
Ma wanted me out of there, oldest and
a girl. Pa had an eye. I was the one sent
out from the store each day to travel up
and down Babylon City, buying what we
needed, arranging deliveries to Holy Galilee
Hospital, the Tyre County Department of
Corrections and City Hall where Pa knew
a guy in the Sewer Department who gave
a filing job to Leah, a year younger than
me — Ma’s idea again — which Pa used for
inside information about street work, bids
and free bricks until, after Pa and Ma were
dead and gone, she quit and took the same
job for a lawyer across the street on the
6th floor of Maccabees Tower and hated
it just as much until one noon, while I was
sitting on the bank of the Babylon River
seven blocks away, she took herself up
to the roof and jumped her freedom flight
of wonder-filled license to the downtown
pavement in front of three teenagers
from west suburban El Dorado.
.
“Lot of good it did her,” said Father
George, the youngest of the boys, a John
Paul II priest, quickly shushed by the sisters
who knew proper etiquette. No pedophile,
he — too empty for lust. I slapped him.
.
Now, evenings, if you drive to Esther
Road, you’ll find me on the dusk porch in
Pa’s old chair. I leave the lightning bugs
alone. Leah whispers in my ear, but I can’t
burn the house down. Where would I live?
It is the last Sunday of Ordinary Time.
.
Patrick T. Reardon
7.6.23
.
This poem originally appeared in The Write Launch in September, 2020. Later, it was included in my 2021 book Darkness on the Face of the Deep, from Kelsay Books.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.