Dresser Memento

 

The keepsake I used to display of dad

was a photograph of him and me

when I was little, walking down a hall

in the high school where he taught English

rows of lockers on either side of us

like parts of the mind where memories live.

My small hand in his, we were silhouettes

against sunlight through the glass door exit.

One day I realized I am older now

than he was the afternoon this picture

was taken, which made me feel uneasy.

So, I replaced it with a whelk shell

bigger than my fist and the slate-blue color

of a storm-tossed, foamy sea. We found it

on a walk at dawn in the Outer Banks

four years before melanoma killed him.

That morning, as the sun rose above

the horizon, a hundred-strong dolphin pod

swam by close to shore, many of them

leaping from the water with apparent joy;

the splash of their bodies against the surf,

the rhythmic spray of their exultant breath

still resonates inside that spiral shell

when I hold it to my ear and listen.

--Jason Harlow 

[Jason's parents both taught at the same high school where I teach. Jason's dad died 25 years ago now, the same year as my own father died of melanoma].

Autumn Equinox

 

Growing up in a little Vermont glen,

I used to dread how daytime waned each year,

a process that began gradually

at summer solstice as long afternoons

stretched past dinner, and you would have to strain

to notice a few moments missing

when twilight's pink hue finally arrived.

But then sunshine diminished rapidly

following the autumn equinox

nestled in our village between mountains,

and there was no way not to acknowledge

the increased territory of darkness,

encroaching as if an invader

over more than its share of the clock.

The expansion of shadow's boundaries

once disturbed me. I thought the realm between

dawn and night had permanently faded,

and along with it, carefree play outdoors

absent concern for school the next morning.

Even learning it didn't last, I still

felt dismay at what seemed an endless dusk.

Now in midlife, I welcome these months

which offer dark in place of light. They give

a refuge from the sun's persistent blaze,

that constant reminder of work to do.

The gloaming has a snug quality:

a companion's gentle embrace, someone

by my side ever since I can recall.

--Jason Harlow

[Photo taken in Wallingford, Vermont]

Volunteer Maple

From a sapling 

decades ago,

the volunteer maple

in the row of pines

behind the barn,

arrayed with hand-sized 

green leaves,

now shows itself 

more substantial 

than the pair 

we planted 

next to the house 

for shade.

I don’t yet know

what the lesson is here,

only that 

after all this time

I am just noticing

how the tree took root

and thrived

without our intention

compared to everything

around it 

needing care:

astilbe, 

painted fern,

hydrangea, and lilac –

even the lawn,

which has become

almost half clover

for the bees 

to feast on,

softly buzzing, 

during their season 

of need.

--Jason Harlow (son of a colleague, friend, and Vermont neighbor).

[Photos of the Volunteer Maple].