Ozone blues and the hands that tried.
We had that old Zenith
laid open on its back -
wires exposed,
glass tubes rising
Dad would kneel,
sleeves rolled high,
his face caught
between shadow and glow,
working slow,
not saying much.
I stayed on the rug
with Mom’s hand mirror,
oval, gold-handled,
cracked along one edge,
trying to catch the light
and send it back to him.
“Angle it... no... just so…”
I turned my wrist
until it hurt,
watching his face
break and come back together
in the glass.
The inside of that Zenith
smelled like heat and dust,
like something
that had been running
a long time.
Each tube lit up
one at a time,
small suns
taking their turn
against the dark.
Sometimes he’d pull one,
replace it,
wait...
and the screen would flicker,
not a picture yet,
just that rush of snow
trying to become something.
I thought he could fix it.
Not just the set,
but whatever it was
that made a room go quiet
when it shouldn’t.
Time didn’t move right
in that house.
It stretched,
held in place
between what worked
and what almost did.
The tester hissed.
His hands kept moving.
Now he’s gone.
The Zenith too.
Even that smell,
warm dust,
lit glass,
gone.
But sometimes
when a streetlight hums,
I see his hands again,
steady,
finding their place
without asking.
And I still catch myself
holding that mirror,
turning it
just a little more,
trying to find the angle
where light
lands right,
and for a second
everything holds.
GB Shaw Jr.
Albany, NY
2023
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