One More Thing
A wall of 35 mm home movies in their brown canisters
record a life unexpected. My father would shake his head in disbelief.
How did a poor schlub like me grow up to have so much, get to travel the world?
His parents, Russian Jewish immigrants, arrived young, never sure
of their real names or the year they were born. There’s a photo
of an ancestor, long black beard, pushing a plow through his field. No one
recalls who he is. As Dad grew up, he rode a horse-drawn wagon
after school, delivering food from the family grocery to those well-off.
A large pickle barrel is forefront in the store photo, Dad’s aproned father
shadowed in the back. More photos. Here is my father graduating several years ahead
of his age, his slim frame waiting to fill out. There are stories, too.
Of the seven years it took to woo my mother. He had called her on a dare.
His joy at fatherhood. His medical practice in the family basement,
ballooning from a handful of patients to more than he could count.
If there were disappointments, he never said. Accepting, grateful
men don’t ask for much. A secular humanist, Dad surprised us toward the end,
his sculptures turned spiritual – flames, hands in prayer, a figure in lotus position,
eyes closed. Seems there was one more thing he reached for after all.
