My First Best Friend
My First Best Friend
After the war—the Second Great one—
And after laboring some time up North,
In Long Island, in a town where folk
From his clan had toiled for centuries,
Odd jobs and carpentering, building,
He set out for this hill.
Before there was a me—or even a glistening—
And barely before there was a pre-me,
It was just a them, four pale blue eyes
Together, Navy veteran and mother, with boundless hope,
Vast vision, and a pair, wee, at their knees.
He wandered toward this hill.
And on this hill—a rarity in these flats—
He saw a cellar he could pack with onion bulbs
Between seasons, and tools to build upward
And an aquifer he could tap with his well,
And trees he could fell for short-Winter’s warmth:
Upon this sandy, weeded hill.
With bricks and boards—with two-inched two by fours—
When wood was straight and measured true,
He built a house, a jaunty ranch,
With blistered hands and tanned shoulders,
And built a home above that cellar,
Upon the sprawling, treasured hill.
He left some trees—saw palmetto, scrubby pines—
That nature planted first, and added more that
They would need: limes and oranges, and saplings
For shade one day, and shrubs and annuals for her,
A practical garden, and the blue hydrangea
On this lush and lively hill.
Four bright blue eyes—sparkling with strength—
Grew to eight and then ten (grandfather at last)
In short time, and nieces and nephews and friends,
And work every day, ninety minutes each way,
And work every weekend, tending his home
All came, yet, purposed differently--before me--on this hill:
Corkwood floors not yet for sliding,
A cellar not yet for play or tinkering,
Trees not yet for climbing,
A garden not yet for learning
How to work and subsist,
Or how to till and sow,
Or how to tend and reap,
A box fan in the garage not yet whirring
To transform voices into robot,
A wood pile not yet for stacking
The wood I’d chop myself
With an axe, a sledge,
And three rusty wedges,
A timeworn beaten up, louse-ridden, rusted out pickup
Not yet for teaching
Me how to drive,
Or what a carburetor was,
Or how to change a tire,
Or not fear rats,
Fruit not yet for eating off the branch,
Berries not yet for snatching from the vine,
Potatoes not yet for digging from the earth,
Palm fronds not yet for building forts,
Fallen oak leaves not yet for piling high
And jumping round in,
Old, iced-tea stained,
Holey, v-necked, t-shirts
Not yet made for pajamas
And sleepovers,
An old shotgun not yet for not knowing
That guns aren’t for me,
Ham and cheese and white bread
not yet for cultivating
simple purity in tastes,
Ballcaps not yet for pretending
That the one he’d just unwrapped
This Christmas morning or
That birthday was his favorite ever,
Hand-rolled cigarettes not yet for not smoking
But for the fun of rolling,
Hard-earned dollars not yet for slipping
Quietly into my hand
When home visiting from college,
On long weekends,
Bravery not yet perfected
In the face of going on
When other eyes had flickered
And dimmed and extinguished,
Giant footsteps--deep in the layers of
Time-blackened soil—
Not yet for filling two to one,
Not for ever filling, or
Ever even coming close.
When my bright round russet eyes first spied this hill,
And bound upon it and joined
Among the sea of blue—his and his girls’—
Wide and taken with all of this, not built for me,
But given in the spirit which built it,
The promise of yet,
By my first best friend,
Who built this place for me,
Before he knew I’d come,
From cellar floor to hearth to chimney top,
Planting seeds and shaping lawns,
With calloused fingers and leathered shoulders,
And congested heart and lungs,
For them—the girls—too, I suppose,
Never a single thing for himself,
Except maybe the cigarette roller,
Never ever a single thing for himself
Except me, his little him,
His shadow,
I fixed my stake and stare forever on this hill,
Forever from this hill,
With my forever first best friend.
Read more of my poetry, essays, and stories at Momentitiousness.com
After the war—the Second Great one—
And after laboring some time up North,
In Long Island, in a town where folk
From his clan had toiled for centuries,
Odd jobs and carpentering, building,
He set out for this hill.
Before there was a me—or even a glistening—
And barely before there was a pre-me,
It was just a them, four pale blue eyes
Together, Navy veteran and mother, with boundless hope,
Vast vision, and a pair, wee, at their knees.
He wandered toward this hill.
And on this hill—a rarity in these flats—
He saw a cellar he could pack with onion bulbs
Between seasons, and tools to build upward
And an aquifer he could tap with his well,
And trees he could fell for short-Winter’s warmth:
Upon this sandy, weeded hill.
With bricks and boards—with two-inched two by fours—
When wood was straight and measured true,
He built a house, a jaunty ranch,
With blistered hands and tanned shoulders,
And built a home above that cellar,
Upon the sprawling, treasured hill.
He left some trees—saw palmetto, scrubby pines—
That nature planted first, and added more that
They would need: limes and oranges, and saplings
For shade one day, and shrubs and annuals for her,
A practical garden, and the blue hydrangea
On this lush and lively hill.
Four bright blue eyes—sparkling with strength—
Grew to eight and then ten (grandfather at last)
In short time, and nieces and nephews and friends,
And work every day, ninety minutes each way,
And work every weekend, tending his home
All came, yet, purposed differently--before me--on this hill:
Corkwood floors not yet for sliding,
A cellar not yet for play or tinkering,
Trees not yet for climbing,
A garden not yet for learning
How to work and subsist,
Or how to till and sow,
Or how to tend and reap,
A box fan in the garage not yet whirring
To transform voices into robot,
A wood pile not yet for stacking
The wood I’d chop myself
With an axe, a sledge,
And three rusty wedges,
A timeworn beaten up, louse-ridden, rusted out pickup
Not yet for teaching
Me how to drive,
Or what a carburetor was,
Or how to change a tire,
Or not fear rats,
Fruit not yet for eating off the branch,
Berries not yet for snatching from the vine,
Potatoes not yet for digging from the earth,
Palm fronds not yet for building forts,
Fallen oak leaves not yet for piling high
And jumping round in,
Old, iced-tea stained,
Holey, v-necked, t-shirts
Not yet made for pajamas
And sleepovers,
An old shotgun not yet for not knowing
That guns aren’t for me,
Ham and cheese and white bread
not yet for cultivating
simple purity in tastes,
Ballcaps not yet for pretending
That the one he’d just unwrapped
This Christmas morning or
That birthday was his favorite ever,
Hand-rolled cigarettes not yet for not smoking
But for the fun of rolling,
Hard-earned dollars not yet for slipping
Quietly into my hand
When home visiting from college,
On long weekends,
Bravery not yet perfected
In the face of going on
When other eyes had flickered
And dimmed and extinguished,
Giant footsteps--deep in the layers of
Time-blackened soil—
Not yet for filling two to one,
Not for ever filling, or
Ever even coming close.
When my bright round russet eyes first spied this hill,
And bound upon it and joined
Among the sea of blue—his and his girls’—
Wide and taken with all of this, not built for me,
But given in the spirit which built it,
The promise of yet,
By my first best friend,
Who built this place for me,
Before he knew I’d come,
From cellar floor to hearth to chimney top,
Planting seeds and shaping lawns,
With calloused fingers and leathered shoulders,
And congested heart and lungs,
For them—the girls—too, I suppose,
Never a single thing for himself,
Except maybe the cigarette roller,
Never ever a single thing for himself
Except me, his little him,
His shadow,
I fixed my stake and stare forever on this hill,
Forever from this hill,
With my forever first best friend.
Read more of my poetry, essays, and stories at Momentitiousness.com
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