Black and White

I wonder if some babies are easier to give away

my mother let me go, her only son

to be replaced, one year later

with a daughter, the first of three

 

my father built a wall of distance between us

escaping, finally, to Canada

I remained his only child

 

cities flowered and wilted

men laughed in smoky evenings and talked of politics

women pressed melons with their thumbs to test for ripeness

and suddenly

I was 42 years-old and sometimes, feeling it

 

I learned of his death, my father

found, eventually, alone

his days of playing tennis, heady sing-song nights

giving away sons, over

 

life leaned toward me then

his brother, he who held me in his hand once

when I was new, came to see me

bringing my father with him in monochrome

in two dimensions

a life in faded photographs

 

my father, a baby too once, before he was a boy

standing, in strange formality, at the beach

water behind him that had seen it all before

 

I watched him stretch to a height I never reached

tall and lean, eager to test himself against it all

I saw age find and change him and wondered if he railed against it

I saw him grow older than myself and saw serious, stoic eyes look at me

look right at me and though I tried to reach inside those photographs

there was nothing of him left

 

then, a small box was placed in my hand and I was told

that I should have it

as it was all that he had left of me, an engagement ring

meant for my mother

it occurred to me that I was touching something that once, his hands had touched

across oceans and time and life and death, this was the closest we could ever be

I opened the small box and was shocked by the vibrant yellow gold and thrumming diamond

I was sure that it would have been black and white