My father has been lifting
I noticed since I was three
that the ripple on his shoulder is built
from every person he could hold up
the column of his thighs made stronger
from taking boulder after boulder up the hill
the scars on his palms
from securing them so they never roll back
the breadth of his back betraying
limits he doesn’t acknowledge
his hands remember names
long after the children have grown into them
my father is also their father
I have shared him all my life
with children I barely remember
in this, I learn erosion
how something can move through many lives
without wearing itself away
the children come back as thankful adults
strong enough to hold him up
some never come back at all
He bends now, my father.
an arch so deep
it looks like the flourish of an elegant bow
when he stands to his full height
the muscles thinned out
because he carries less these days
but the smile in his eyes unwavering,
lets you know he’s not done lifting.
