Skip to main content

At Home


For my brother, who left this world too soon

I did not follow you to the fields
to plow the dark, cool soil
by night, after a day’s work for cash.
But I know how your boy-frame hunched
forward in the tractor seat to hug the wheel,
how moonlight fell across your bare back,
how the engine’s hum mesmerized you.
Farm boy, at home in the family fields.

I did not follow you on the open road
sailing into the heartland
to lush wheat ripe for harvest.
But I know you drove fast with windows down,
wind rushing against your face, plains sweeping
toward Litchfield, Des Moines, Moline,
big farm territory, wide-open sky.
John Deere boy, at home in the vast Midwest.

I did not follow you to West Tennessee
as you greeted coffee-guzzling farmers
mornings in the café, raising a flat palm.
But I know the ring of your Hel-lo-o-o!
as sunburned faces crinkled - chewing tobacco
or smoking expensive cigars - men calling out,
Hey Dave! Y’all got a 9550 combine?
John Deere man, at home on the flatlands.

I did not follow you on your last dark journey,
But I know you squared your shoulders against
the lonely terrain, and I like to think
that a brilliant light caught the blue of your eyes
as you came into kinder country and strained to
glimpse a familiar face, and when you did -
A sweeping wave, a big Hel-lo-o-o! -
You were at home.

pgallaher@copyright 2019

www.phyllisgobbell.com

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

What We Keep, What We Throw Away

What We Keep, What We Throw Away             The rain began that Saturday morning and pounded Nashville all day.  It was a driving, insistent rain that drowned out thoughts of anything else, even before the local news preempted programming to report cars stranded on the interstates and residents trapped in their homes by rising waters.             My daughter Caroline, with husband Luke, two-year-old Max, and Randolf, the Jack Russell, lived in a neighborhood bordered by a creek that at times rose and mimicked white rapids for a little while. But never had the creek jumped its banks. On this day, it did.             One neighbor’s bridge had washed away, Caroline told me in her first call that afternoon. Another neighbor’s back yard was a lake, with water already seeping into the house.             If only the rain would stop. Caroline and Luke could still see their yard. They could still drive out to the street. But the rain showed no sign of letting up.             In
Post a Comment
Read more

On Father's Day

My father belonged to the generation and culture of Southern men that seriously avoided any talk of feelings. He was no-nonsense, work-from-dawn-till-dusk, back as straight as a two-by-four, but he had his gentle moments. His hands were rough, his arms lean and powerful, and he would scoop me up one-handed after a day in the fields, and I would rub my small fingers across his bristly jawline. He wiped away tears when he left me at college and, later, when we said goodbye at the airport, as I headed for the Peace Corps. My father declared his love for Jesus in heartfelt prayers, but he never told me he loved me. I don’t believe I ever told him I loved him, either.             Our family was poor, though I didn’t know it. I had everything I needed, more than   many families in our rural community. Daddy paid for medicine that other men could not buy for their children. He put men to work when he didn’t need their help. Men would come to the back door owing Daddy money and leave with
Post a Comment
Read more

Grateful

A memory: Early morning, fire crackling in the wood stove, first light leaning toward us as Mama rocks me, back and forth. I’m in footed pajamas.             Thanksgivings will come and go, but this one, the first I can recall, this one has carved itself into me.             I’m the baby, too young to know grateful, but I know home, family, love.             Smell of scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy thick in the air. My brother gets his breakfast on a tray because he has rheumatic fever. Five years, my whole life, he’s been sick. I jump on his bed, and the tray rattles. He grabs his glass of milk and laughs. Always happy, my sick brother, with dimples like mine.             I see it all, still.             My older brother, home from college, goes squirrel hunting with Daddy. They head toward the woods in their funny caps with flaps over their ears. My sister, home from nursing school, dresses me in pink corduroy overalls. Mama makes an apple pie. The long curly peels drop int
1 comment
Read more