I'll Remember Him

Standing in his orchard,
pants hiked up,
sweat soaking his tucked-in button down beige work shirt.
A large, exaggerated, windmill of a wave,
and matching smile
as I hear him holler,
"Hiya!".
Standing in front of his brush pile.
His hat casts the shade of a maple,
and his stride has the length
and strength of the same tree's roots.
His limbs wave me in,
and we spend the afternoon picking up sticks.

We finish up,
as I start walking home we agree to meet for dinner.
All cleaned up, I hop on my bike
and pedal back over,
careful to not work up a sweat.
He's now sitting on his patio,
scotch in hand,
Merthiolate highlighting his nicks and scrapes,
he stirs his ice with his fingertips
and poises his index finger and thumb
to retrieve an olive at the bottom of his glass,
and reminds me of what a golden day it is.

He sets his drink down
and walks me to his basketball hoop.
"10 free throws before dinner."
No argument,
I'd shoot 20.

Dinner's ready.
My hands are dirty,
we take a detour to the bathroom
and he brings out the "fingernail brush".
I lather my hands,
he takes the brush
and with firm, short strokes
aims to take the day's work
out from under my nails for me.
Instead,
I giggle uncontrollably.



Jordan R Shaver 06.24.2014