Patricia Tanner Candal
Calling Out the MemoriesNestled in the arm of the woods embracing its backside,
the old barn housed his tools and gave him space to tinker.
His hammers and nails, saws and drills are still there,
ten years after he turned his face to the light of a hospital window,
taking three breaths before leaving us.
Forty years ago his children played beneath the tin roof
covering the bean sheller and the steps
that lead to where he shaped baby cribs and picnic tables.
Near the end, he made small crosses.
Small children spent summer hours twirling pine needles
or dried twigs in the dark sand funnels near the barn door,
calling out the ant lions with singsong lyrics.
"Doodle Bug, Doodle Bug, come for your supper,"
"Doodle Bug, Doodle Bug, your house is on fire."
We believed the tiny, dirt-colored, backwards-moving larva
wouldn’t come if we didn’t sing.
When it finally came, we wouldn’t see him right away;
he pretended to be dead and looked like the dirt he hid in.
We stopped twirling and stared
until a tiny pebble shape twitched a little,
scuttling backwards into the earth. "There he is! He came."
Outside the children played with sticks and bug-calling songs,
Inside the man made memories of benches and playful toys.
A wooden button on a string will twirl,
sing for hours when hands pump in and out,
like the wings of a butterfly before its first flight.
A child is told to be careful, not to let the string slip;
someone too close could be hurt from flying wooden buttons.
Leaving wooden buttons, benches, and children beckoning ant lions,
his spirit seemed to lift through a narrow hospital window.
Perhaps he heard a lilting call above the earth funnels,
"Minton, Minton, come for your supper."
©2008 Patricia Tanner Candal