Volumes

Our cul-de-sac's mouth

Opened

Toward John Hamlin's house,

Where wooden ramp flared

From front door to asphalt,

Eased his thoroughfare

In motorized wheelchair,

To lift-van on driveway.

John had contracted polio

When a young man;

Was abandoned by his wife,

And lost access to daughter.

He lived with agèd parents

On Labrador Street.

I was in Junior High,

And assisted my neighbor

With tasks. John wrote

For the Valley News,

So I glued advertising

Tearsheets

Into his large scrapbook.

He read my writing

From school assignments,

And told me it was strong.

I aided him with straws

In beverage tumblers,

And marveled

Over pink petit four

I was served

At Christmas time.

Occasionally he'd ask me

To help reorganize

A freestanding bookcase

In his home office. 

Under nuanced guidance,

I'd tug editions from shelves,

Polish dark wood tiers,

Wipe cloth bindings,

Set tomes in place.

I can't say

We simply put them back

As we found them,

He talked about the titles;

They were his wisdom books,

Some were moved 

To a different level,

Some were faced out.

John opened a volume,

And read, aloud, excerpt, 

"Love," he intoned,

"Is mobility through time."

I've transported

My weighty bookcase

To every place I've lived.

My cabinetry is mahogany:

46 1/2 inches high,

15 1/2 inches deep,

23 inches wide,

With five shelves 

And ziggurat brackets

For feet.

It is full of wisdom books.

I pull hardback 

With oxidized spine

Off top shelf,

"Love," I say out loud,

"Is mobility through time."

Laura Stickney 2023

Notes:

petit four--little cake

ziggurat--stepped 

photo by Laura Stickney of scrapbook

gifted to her by John Hamlin