Saturday night, we gathered
before the black and white television
to watch a movie: sometimes
a western saga, others a biblical classic.
Clad in plaid robe and puppy slippers,
clutching a favorite bear, I cuddled
beside my mother, a middle-aged nymph
perched on a half-couch. She smiled at
my sagacious dad, secure in his recliner,
white-socked feet raised, sipping coffee.
Always an inevitable scene: the hero
would take flight, a mountain collapse,
or Moses part the sea.
I asked my mother “is that real?”
and in turn she asked my dad.
“Trick photography” he responded -
his explanation to many things
we watched, needing context,
in terms he knew. Grinding his pipe,
“They can do anything with that movie magic.”
When my mother became ill, cures
left out of the conversation, easy answers
dwindled. I never heard the surgeon
lay it out for him, but my mother stared
to him as my dad stared back to me.
He found a comfortable chair knowing
no one would debate fairness, no final frame
savior would cruise in to rescue his damsel.
The hero had a last dogged scene to act out,
one infused with affect he could never explain.