A needle pulling out the sweet, eerie sound of a bass, baritone voice.
A record revolving.
Deep tones...singing of an anchor...deep tones.
Bass-Baritone.
It’s Valentines’ Night— an anniversary,
The night he met his wife, sixty-four years ago.
But he’s not dancing with the woman in the red shoes, falling in love.
He’s got his arms stretched out toward heaven,
Adjusting a part in an imaginary car.
He’s my anchor sinking…or rising up—I can’t tell.
“I wanna go home,” he says. “Why won’t anyone take me home?”
Nephews, grandsons, daughters, and granddaughters have pleaded with him,
“You ARE home. You built this house.”
He asks me to drive this bus, which is his recliner.
I pull the ottoman to his feet and sit with my back toward him, like he’s a passenger.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask.
“I wanna go home.”
Looking at the walls of this room and up at the ceiling in such wonder,
He points to the beautiful chapel in the pasture. He is pleased with the scenery.
“We’re on our way,” I tell him, “but let’s just enjoy where we are.”
And I turn toward the road that is not there, while tears streak down my cheeks.
I’ve grown up hearing the story of love at first sight—the seeing, the meeting, and the dancing.
On every Valentines’ night that I’ve spent with him since she passed away,
He’s looked at his watch…looked at his watch…looked at his watch—
Until the hands hover above the numbers, 7 and 1–
“This is it,” he’d say. “This is the moment when I met your grandmother. Right now. This is it….
And 6 months, 9 days, and 16 hours later, I married her.”
But tonight, the hands move, and the seconds pass—unnoticed.
Erin Elizabeth Cloar . February 19, 2012
A record revolving.
Deep tones...singing of an anchor...deep tones.
Bass-Baritone.
It’s Valentines’ Night— an anniversary,
The night he met his wife, sixty-four years ago.
But he’s not dancing with the woman in the red shoes, falling in love.
He’s got his arms stretched out toward heaven,
Adjusting a part in an imaginary car.
He’s my anchor sinking…or rising up—I can’t tell.
“I wanna go home,” he says. “Why won’t anyone take me home?”
Nephews, grandsons, daughters, and granddaughters have pleaded with him,
“You ARE home. You built this house.”
He asks me to drive this bus, which is his recliner.
I pull the ottoman to his feet and sit with my back toward him, like he’s a passenger.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask.
“I wanna go home.”
Looking at the walls of this room and up at the ceiling in such wonder,
He points to the beautiful chapel in the pasture. He is pleased with the scenery.
“We’re on our way,” I tell him, “but let’s just enjoy where we are.”
And I turn toward the road that is not there, while tears streak down my cheeks.
I’ve grown up hearing the story of love at first sight—the seeing, the meeting, and the dancing.
On every Valentines’ night that I’ve spent with him since she passed away,
He’s looked at his watch…looked at his watch…looked at his watch—
Until the hands hover above the numbers, 7 and 1–
“This is it,” he’d say. “This is the moment when I met your grandmother. Right now. This is it….
And 6 months, 9 days, and 16 hours later, I married her.”
But tonight, the hands move, and the seconds pass—unnoticed.
Erin Elizabeth Cloar . February 19, 2012
