Father opened a musty

Audubon bird book,

serendipitously viewed

blue and white Delphiniums

pressed together between

tattered pages, a mnemonic

confluence illuminating

how father and son used to

monitor growth by clasping

palms together, bonding

like the handshake of

a cherished old friend,

wondering if their

double-jointed thumbs

would ever meet.

Father like a real father bear

tugged and tussled with his son:

they Indian wrestled every night

for balance, endurance and might,

booped and bopped a soccer ball

for agility and lightening speed

and played endless games of tennis

for honing the killer instinct so one

day the son might be declared

a quintessential winner.

And from the sky, serene and far,

A voice fell, like a falling star,


Milton P. Ehrlich