This short poem was written some years ago when my daughter first started riding the bus to school. Nowadays, she is definitely unmoored from my hand but hasn’t washed out to sea (yet). The neighbor’s chairs (see photo) were cast off to parts unknown.
Two Chairs Fading
Each day
on the way to the bus stop,
my daughter in tow,
we pass the chairs:
tot-sized Adirondacks,
faded-red,
anchored in a yard,
abandoned.
Their captains long since
moved up the ranks.
As we walk on,
her hand gently
sways and tugs
in the hook of my palm.
Yet, even now,
I can sense the tide’s pull,
the line stretching,
letting go . . .
her drift into currents
I will not swim.
** Photographed by the poet
Love this one, Jimmy. What a deft touch!
Thank you Eddie. My wife was amused that I wrote that our (introverted) daughter was holding my hand. I told her I was covered by my poetic license. Plus, to only metaphorically be hooked to my daughter’s hand adds more pathos to the poem.
Don’t let facts get in the way of a good poem!
Adeptly done! Any parent can easily related. I love the graceful nautical metaphors.
Thank you Trent. Since I write in something of a vacuum, it is heartening to get positive feedback from someone like you (and Ed) with an academic background.
No accidents or coincidences. This post was lost in my inbox to be discovered this week. I’m feeling much nostalgia as I have another nephew reaching for his eighth birthday on Easter. Eight is a big number! I still have the card from my parents for my eighth birthday (because I’m a sentimental sap). I just shared a different poem on my facebook page earlier today, but I’m sharing this one too.
Thank you Rebecca, I’m glad you discovered the poem and think it is worth sharing.