Jacob W. Surface two poems

"In the Room of Regrets”

Grandpa

In the room of regrets I go to visit you more often as a teenager. We work in the garage on a piece of furniture that Grandma wants for her antique business. You swear at her softly as we start, but I can see the joy in your face as you craft the wood and show off your geometry skills. You tell jokes that you don't tell when she is around. When the hammer hits my thumb, you laugh. When your nail bends, and you curse Grandma again, it’s my turn to laugh. When we are done, we grab the white plastic chairs and drink ice-cold water from the garage fridge. I ignore the cell phone in my pocket. You left yours in the house, forgotten in a drawer. We talk about school, girls, the war. We trade confidence for quality time.

Dad

In the room of regrets, I make it more evident that I want to go fishing with you. Especially on some of your last trips, before you lost interest in the hobby, and felt your boat turn burdensome. I would ask that you teach me, instead of doing it for me: baits, hooks, proper names, how to drive the boat… We sit in comfortable silence as we wait, studying the glossy green for our lines to jiggle. I insist on live bait; you use the rubbers. At lunchtime, we enjoy our baloney and cheese sandwiches we made before we left and the chips we bought from that little convenience store where I got the bait. I hint at ice cream for later, a smile is your response. On the way home, we listen to one of your CD’s that I never knew you had. I ask you about it, and you tell me about the concerts you went to when you were sixteen, before you met Mom. Then we move to other stories. Like the time you and your best friend, Tom, took the little rowboat down to the creek. It was after the winter thaw, and the current was faster than you realized and before you knew it, it was washing you both up under the little bridge Grandpa had built, giving you to the icy March waters. You tell me about how you and Tom sloshed back up to the house, found dry clothes, warmed up by the fireplace, and then went back to do it all again. You smile from the nostalgia; I smile, getting to know you a little more.

Painting of "Willie" Wilhelm” by JD Moffitt at jdmoffitt.com