Grace

Forgiveness, trembling in the shadow of memory

Photo by Tamara Govedarovic on Unsplash

He’s not the same man he once was.
At least that’s what I tell myself
as he sits in the recliner,
boxer shorts, a threadbare v-neck,
bouncing my son on his knee.

He baas like a sheep or goat,
his usual schtick with kids.
For a moment, there’s a tenderness
I don’t recognize—
the way he cups his chest,
careful not to let him slip.

My throat tightens.
It startles me how natural he looks,
as if his hands had always
known this gentleness.
He smiles in a way I don’t remember,
and something sharp moves through me
before I can stop it.

The moment passes.
Sweat beads on his brow.
I’m asked to take the kid.
He doesn’t use my son’s name.
I think about correcting him.
I don’t.

He wipes his face with the kitchen towel
he’s been using all week,
drifts closer to the window unit,
chasing the cold.

Mom calls us to the table.
Chairs scrape.
He chides us, then bows his head,
still the one to say grace.

His voice, softer now, pauses
in places it never used to.

First published in The Belfast Review, Issue 5

---

As always, a huge THANK YOU for taking the time to read my poem. Without you, my voice would be a whisper just floating in the air.

---