Some nights, before I go to sleep,
I keep seeing you, as you once were (when I was young).
Strange, the things we remember:
The way you brushed your teeth, so hard,
as if they were up for daily inspection by an army officer,
or how you stamped your feet
on the mat by the door, every time you came in.
I used to marvel,
at your ability with a steering wheel—one hand,
pulling it down and around, when we turned
If I’m lucky,
Before I drift away, I’m allowed the sound of your whistle,
or a line of a tune we both loved.
I can hear the swish of your brush against your shoes on Sunday morning,
as you polish them up—good as new.
Then I see your back and shoulders,
(in an old white vest), bent in prayer to God,
if you still do that too.