My Father's Bones
Sally Boyington
As I was passing by the shelf
where lie my father’s bones
my eyes alighted
on their glossy curves,
not the dry bones of Ezekiel--
a thigh bone connected
to a knee bone,
linked by sinews and clothed
in spare flesh--
but well-oiled ribs of oak
once held between
beloved knobby knuckles
and clacked together
rapidly end to end
in a rocking rhythm
he never mastered
on the instrument he truly
desired to play, a fiddle
bought for fifty cents
at a farm auction and
resting with room to spare
in an old black coffin case
with a faded green felt lining
thin and tattered.
These are not my father’s bones
as most people speak of such,
the DNA pattern of his life
writ in minerals and left
bare of flesh upon death,
yet they are truly his,
for his musical spirit once rang
free in them. They came to me
unplayed and silent in a way
that would have wounded him.
To the shelf I went
and picked them up, these
simple instruments, and attempted
a tune with a flick of my wrist
in honor of my father.
Tears flowed faster
than the halting rattle,
for I never mastered the bones,
but I felt his smile
and knew he was listening
to that last parting gift
before the bones
went back on the shelf.
Sally Boyington has had poems, novels (most recently Rainbow Knife, 2022), book reviews, and nonfiction articles published. As a copy editor and publishing coach, she has helped several hundred authors see their words in print. Sally lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her husband and four-footed friends.