On that hill in Indiana
when the old car stalled and Papa, resigned,
climbed out to discover why – while we children
tumbled about impatient and clamorous;
on that hill, did I begin to register love’s complexity,
glimpse its sometime divisive loyalties?
When he was out the car, Mama murmured so low
(I may have been the only one to hear)
“He looks so tired – ”
as though she’d noticed only then our ‘now’,
after weeks of looking back to Belgium
and the ties of home – “so tired.”
Was it then I first recognized adult anxiety;
sensed dimly the pangs of her fear;
knew sorrow in the lines of his body
as he worked to fix one more failed thing –
my war-shaped father; mostly merry,
until the next “Great War” loomed dead ahead.
And here we were in Indiana,
far from war-threatened shores;
Papa hopeful, Mama looking back in tears
to the receding security of the familiar.
Did I learn then that the unspoken
informs more searingly than words?
I was newly eight.
Years later, living out long-widowed years alone,
save for children’s visits from afar,
did Mama ever recall that moment on the hill?
I never spoke of it.
– Gabrielle Traxler
