Legacy

You had large hands—perfect hands
for hitting a child.
You had long, strong arms—beautiful arms, really,
and just perfect
for effortlessly picking up that child from the floor
and hurling her against a wall.
Your voice, so genial and mellow, so suited
to the affectionate slogans you used to craft for each one of us
and to the silly songs that would make us laugh, was the same voice
that would make us cringe—the roar of a raging bear,
the growl of a lion about to pounce; the voice that would bellow,
“If you cry, I’ll come back and give you some more.”

I’d been so madly in love with you. In the beginning,
I would stage a scene where I’d fallen off my bed, and wait
for you to come along and scoop me up from the floor
and tuck me in as you used to before; I’d hope you’d come
and tell us a tale about our heroic cat’s adventures
as the rescuer of little girls in deadly peril.
But no more. No more stories by the bedside. No more tuckings in.
No more holding me by the hand when crossing the street. Gone
the spinning games at the water’s edge, done and over with
the daily gifts of cookies in diminutive packages
when you came home from work.

You were a good teacher, and I, a quick study.
I, too, have large hands.
I followed your example and picked on those who were smaller than me,
and—can you believe it—I outdid you. I refined your art.

Well—that’s all in the past now. But I do wonder
what our cat would have done to the two of us in one of your stories.