T.C. Carter

RAIN MAN

 

 

He was standing across a field from me

at the edge of the forest

where he used to cut cord wood

with a double edge axe,

and stack it by himself.

He was backlit 

by some unknown light source

that sliced its way through the trees

revealing him as a dark silhouette,

but I knew it was my dad.

 

I could smell the pine

and the decay of the forest floor,

the odor of meat curing

in the smoke house,

and feel the wind blowing in 

from across the Chesapeake Bay

where he and my uncles fished 

from a rowboat and later ate oysters

on the half shell with hot sauce,

washed down with cold bottled beer.

They had joked and laughed 

with the abandonment of young boys,

for the war had given them the knowledge

that life was a fleeting proposition,

a gift to be used with passion.

 

The decades had melted away

and I was ten years old again.

My dad was speaking to me,

but the pattering rhythm of the rain

made it difficult to discern 

what he was saying. 

I crossed the open field where

he had raised a crop of tobacco that year,

the mud tugging at my boots

like some creature of the darkness

intent on dragging me down.

 

When I reached him

I saw that the weight of his hard life

had melted away and like a butterfly

emerged from its cocoon,

he was as young and fresh 

as the first moment in a new day. 

He handed me the double edge axe

and said, “A man should have a good axe.”

He touched his hand to my face,

turned, and walked towards the light.

I startled awake and thought

I smelled the Old Spice after shave lotion

that he had favored for so many years.