In his eyes, admiration.
A faraway look of remembrance.
A suffering man, with never an ounce of martyr
about him.

The smile is the same.
The tilt of the head, identical,
As if the years evaporated between them.

Dad, the Book Lover.
Mystery and History
Sherlock Holmes
His talisman: “Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.”
That, his comfort book, bequeathed to
The son who would safeguard it
When the hospital was the Father’s next stop.

Now, through the years,
Single words
Erase the sadnesses.

Capable
Competent
Corny puns.

What is left?
A chair, and that smile,
The tilt of both heads.

Most of all
A pen, the blueness
Of it, indelible as India ink
On fine vellum.

Within and without
Like Father—Like Son
They visit on saintly days
When time permits
And all their work is done.
They strike out together, unfettered,
To a special place,
Reserved for them alone,
in heaven.

Charlene James-Duguid
Amissville, Virginia
February, 2020