Tag: Father

My Father and the Jasmine Flowers

My Father and the Jasmine Flowers

street waifs
stringing white flowers
into long, fragrant necklaces,
plucked them from the sky
shook them from the tall green bushes
until they fell like rain upon the grass —-
 
jasmine necklaces sold
for devout señoras to wear
at Flores de Mayo processions
five centavos for all that work,
three
if señoras haggled long enough —-

were you one of the little ones
hands baked by the sun,
wide-eyed,
barefoot,
hungry?

how time comes and leaves
so swiftly
as in half a breath,
as in a hurried dream,
and for whatever
reason there may have been
I came to be —-

older folks would tell me
you walked miles to school,
no centavos for a ride,
and your classmates laughed and sneered
as they rode the bus and passed you by,
you walked on
carrying your dreams 
in your heart.

how time comes and leaves
so swiftly
as in half a breath,
as in a hurried dream,
and you are gone —-

tonight
as I recall the tales of folks
from long ago
I drench my pillow
with the fragrant tears
of white jasmine flowers
through the midnight hours,
into the break of dawn.

D. G. Vachal © 2024

Image by Oom Endro @ Pixabay

A Childhood Memory of My Father

 

for my father — a childhood memory….


Late morning silhouette:
unwelcome shadows,
purple grey subtlety
suffocate the sun
I am befuddled by the silence,
absence of laughter,
ordinary talk,
the smile on my mother’s face —

Sunday respite away from home,
a town where my father was born, we would
spend hours at Aunt Andrea’s house
until the sunset bid farewell
and the gas lamps gave light along with fireflies
and the crickets chirped on.

I was a little child less than school age
in pigtails and petticoats
wondering where my father went that day
for I longed for his strong presence
amidst this baffling purple silhouette —

I crossed the pebbled country road,
climbed up a stunted hill
to Grandma’s house and I found
my father weeping,
hunched under a native fruit tree,
mournful violin strings uncontrollable,
relentless rivulets of tears cascade
for a brother to be buried,
at height of youth,
poisoned
at a town feast the week before
a chef’s senseless blunder —

Wide brown eyes watched in wonder,
my little child’s heart cried at his distress and he
looked back and beheld his daughter,
his countenance contorted in grief softening,
and slowly the mournful music lulled
as he staggered to where I stood
and my father held my hand
and he and I chased the purple shadows out of the morning
as we walked down the hill
along with life and the sunlight.

© 2012 by D. G. Vachal, revised 2021

* photography by Аркадий Деев