Wordsmith
By Susan Young
In my mind I call my
father the Pollyfilla king,
watch with something akin to awe
as he begins the arduous process
5 of filling in the gaps, the long winded
cracks that travel down the walls of my house
like run on sentences.
From the sidelines I watch as he
trudges up and down the stairs, carrying
10 with nonchalance an industrial-sized bucket,
shiny spatula tucked into back pocket
for easy access.
Over and over again
with precision and grace
15 he fills and smooths and sands
as filling in all of the empty crevices
with the words he didn’t know how to say,
the lost syllables and consonants springing up
from the bucket, stubbornly announcing themselves
20 home, until there is only smoothness,
my fifty eight year old house a perfect sentence,
the veritable sheen of its walls
privy to this father of mine,
whose love keeps him moving
25 from room to room, brightly asking,
Do you think you’ll be painting the other room
Upstairs sometime? I could start work on it now.
Then it’ll be ready for painting later.
Yes, I say, yes,
30 My face aglow.
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