Category: Reflections

  • The 8-in-1 Screwdriver

    There’s a screwdriver.

    Red, plastic.

    It’s an 8-in-one. 

    8 little screwdrivers come up and fold down. 

    Some big, some small. 

    Flathead or Phillips.

    We keep it in the kitchen.
    You ask for it when you want to check the batteries in your toys.

    We call it Poppies screwdriver.

    I think I called it that once, and the name stuck.

    Not because he owned it.

    Or ever used it.

    But because he gave it to me as a gift.

    Christmas, I think.

    Before you were born.

    It came in the mail.

    While he was away in treatment.

    And it’s impossible for you to know

    Every time you ask to use it.

    The constellation of memories 

    Some big, some small.

    That come up.

    One after another.

  • A Hand Held at Night

    The most tender moments arrive just before you drift off to sleep.

    Your mom and I take turns each night, lying beside you until your breathing deepens and it’s safe to slip away.

    Sometimes, just as I’m planning my escape, you say something completely unexpected.

    You reveal a fear of being blown away by the wind.
    You announce that you have bones in your body—news delivered with awe and unease.
    (We’d visited a cemetery that day. I wondered if this was your first brush with the idea of mortality.)

    Other nights, you simply ask to hold my hand.
    As if we’re entering your dreams together.

    Once, you whispered, “Dad, you’re the best dad,”
    just as I was feeling the opposite.

    And as I gently wrestle my fingers from your softening grip, I think—
    maybe children are more forgiving of us than we are of ourselves.
    Maybe the comfort of a hand held at night carries more weight than we realize.

    So I stay a few minutes longer.

  • Oh, here he comes.

    My wife mercifully got me an Aeropress for my birthday this year. For a long time before that I had been drinking instant coffee. This is a short piece from the point of view of a spoon who is mildly disgusted that he has been enlisted to scoop that nasty stuff.

    Oh, here he comes.

    That same sleepy look on his face. We’re doing this again, are we?

    I see him coming because he left me out on the counter last time—like an animal. Not in the sink. Certainly not cleaned and put away like I deserve.

    Yup. Cabinet opens. Glass jar. Red lid comes off.

    Oh, he’s got me. Blech.

    Right into that putrid sand. Those horrid granules.

    Scoop. Dump. Tap tap. The metallic ping as I’m rapped on top of his Yeti mug.

    Now the water. Room temperature.

    He says he doesn’t have time to heat it.

    “This is fuel,” he mutters. “It’s not about taste.”

    Oh, I have friends, you know. Scoops who work with real coffee.

    Breakfast blends. Dark Sumatrans. One guy’s on Chemex duty. Chemex.

    Imagine that.

    Sometimes the little one asks, “Are you making coffee, Dad?”

    Hey Junior—got news for ya. This ain’t coffee.

    This is an abomination.

    But whatever.

    To each their own, I guess.

  • Pocket Treasures

    Pocket Treasures

    The minute we get home, you rush inside and turn out your pockets.
    This has been a productive walk.

    First, out comes a rubber band.
    Ryan, our mailman, seems to always drop them.
    “This one’ll be perfect for hitching train cars,” you say.

    Next, the penny.
    A little rusty, but Mom says when life shows you abundance, always accept.
    No matter how small it seems.

    Finally, the rock.
    A special one.

    You almost missed it—
    but when you looked down to check your shoelaces, there it was.
    On the sidewalk, near the grass.
    Black. Smooth. A shiny white stripe down the middle.

    Before you slipped it into your pocket, I could see—
    you already knew.

    This one was for Mom.

    Because the best way to appreciate abundance
    is to pass it on.

    Thanks for reading.
    I’m collecting these small moments as I go.

    Take a look around: Browse the shop or check out Free Crappy Art

  • Mornings

    For a while, I would sneak down early

    Start my day mindfully

    Just some quiet time before the day begins.

    Sometimes 15 minutes. Sometimes an hour.

    I knew how to minute the creaks.

    Step on the first.

    Skip the second.

    Around the landing.

    Two steps, then skip.

    Quiet the rest of the way.

    Silence was mine.

    And then you got older.

    Or the clocks changed.

    I’d hear a hushed “Dad’s up.”

    Before I even hit the landing.

    By the time I reached the couch I’d hear your descending pattern.

    No skipped steps.

    All thumps.

    I’d curse myself for feeling disappointed.

    I try not to let on.

    As we sit together on the couch.

    Still mindful

    Just a different practice.