Poetry

Dad’s Pipe

The chipped mouthpiece sits between his teeth 
as he strikes the flint, eyes focused on the flame
from the Zippo. With each draw in, the fire
disappears into the chamber, charring
the top layer of cherry tobacco. Smoke shadows
his tanned face with each puff.
I watch the ritual
every night after supper, hands elbow deep in suds.
The kettle whistles, Mom pours him a cup of tea,
sweetens it with honey from our hives, three,
nestled under the crabapple tree in the backyard.
The bees are clustering now, shivering to generate heat,
surrounded in sweetness under the Cold Moon.

Cherry scent from the plug-in drifts
across the kitchen as I load the dishwasher.
I remember his blue-collar shirt smudged in grease
and hard work. His calloused fingers holding the pipe
as he flipped through the newspaper. I make a cup
of hot tea, sweeten it with honey from a local beekeeper
and scroll through social media.
The same ritual,
same movements, different generations. Our cells clustered
in each other, moving together through time. I pick up his lighter,
the one I gave him many Christmases ago, run my thumb
over his initials, flick it open and strike the flint three times.
Only sparks, the fluid long dried up.

This poem was published in Poetry As Promised , Issue 3. If would like to purchase a copy, go to www.lulu.com.

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