catapult magazine

My dad’s handkerchiefs

by Jamie Janosz

My dad kept a stack of handkerchiefs 
In his top bureau drawer.

He always carried one
In his pants pocket,
Soft and faded from endless washings.

Dad ironed them himself,
While watching football
On the downstairs television.

Whenever I sneezed or cried,
He would offer his hankie,
And hold my hand.

Strong, piano-playing hands,
Well-used with wrinkles and stubby nails.

Hands that held my wobbly bicycle or
Lifted me and my brother, sleeping,
From the backseat of our Malibu station wagon.

Hands that are no longer here
For me to feel, to see, to touch.
Like those soft worn handkerchiefs
Folded in the corner of my heart.