The Ladder
We forgo shoes, hustle to the garage
to snag the ladder—two splintering sections
bowed in the middle with age, lashed
and relashed by duct tape and spit.
My father in too–tight undershirt,
anti-perspirant stains, climbs as I foot
the bottom rung, the storm pouring
gallons in our dug-out cellar windows.
Dirty water’s bleeding inside, three streams
and a build-up about ready to give
our fuses a shower. It soaks the ‘87 Sox poster,
pulps at the legs of dog-chewed tables
holding trophies from Little League
back when dad and I Saturday–stomped
to the miniature fields—together, quiet.
We’re a team again, father and son
with some tools and a goal. Look at him
as he swaggers flimsy up the stories
to the gutter with a plan, stoic
in tighty–whiteys. And me, straining
to hold it all steady, strapping sort, right?
Dad’s wider than the ladder; I’m weaker
than the task, under him and the rain
and the pressure to be more than just help.
I look diagonally up at his climb now,
wringing my t–shirt. I play back the fear, glad
since nothing that could have happened did,
that he stood—still stands—single–handedly
saving our house without any pants.
“Don’t let it slip,” he shouts back.
I try to hold us fast
as he charges recklessly,
up–and–away dad borne for once by the son.
My father with clumps of leaves,
a still–life and strobe–lit by lightning:
then, like that, gone.
Photo by Matt Schario