On Lincoln Street I sat,
book open, heart open,
summer sun leaning in the window,
time slowing like molasses in a jar.
Melville spoke.
Not loud…
not shouting…
but soft,
like a man brushing dust from an old coat.
"The Usher was pale,
threadbare in coat, in body, in brain."
I saw him.
I saw my father too,
thin in his last weeks,
threadbare in body,
but still here,
still breathing,
still ours.
I read of that handkerchief…
flags of the world stitched bright,
mocking, dancing,
waving at mortality.
And I thought:
isn’t that the way?
The bright beside the fading.
The laugh beside the sorrow.
The flags beside the dust.
In my room on Lincoln Street,
Elmira quiet all around,
I heard memory hum its tune.
Crickets in the yard.
A screen door sighing.
Mother in the kitchen.
Father resting.
And me -
holding a book like a candle,
holding a summer like a prayer.
The words said dust,
and I thought of dust:
Dust on shelves.
Dust on shoes.
Dust of years
that gathered in the corners of our house.
Dust of living.
Dust of dying.
But still…
the man kept dusting.
Still -
I kept reading.
Still -
Father kept breathing,
slow, steady, soft,
as though each breath
was both hello and goodbye.
And I knew -
a room can hold a whole world.
Lincoln Street,
Elmira quiet,
summer hot,
book open,
Dad near.
The whole world in one room.
I felt peaceful,
yes…
but not empty.
I felt sorrow,
yes…
but not undone.
I felt memory rising up,
like a low blues line,
like a hymn hummed under breath,
like the train whistle down the track -
going, going,
never fully gone.
So I let Melville’s Usher sit beside me,
dusting his grammars.
I let my father’s silence sit beside me too,
dusting my heart.
And I thought:
maybe we are all dust-keepers,
book-holders,
memory-savers,
flag-wavers
in the long parade of time.
And the blues played on,
quiet, steady,
through the open window,
through the still air,
through me -
sitting on Lincoln Street,
holding peace and ache together,
like two hands clasped,
like two voices singing
the same slow song.
GBS
Queens, NY
2024
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