Black, frayed and worn,
my father's wallet
is tucked away,
kept,
oddly surfacing
when least expected,
like today, while cleaning out a desk,
appearing within a drawer.

Its contents remain
untouched
undisturbed
within gray tattered pockets.
There are supermarket cards,
(Pathmark, A&P,
Walbaums, Food Emporium,
Stop & Shop, Grade A,
and Shoprite).
I chuckle.
Insurance cards,
(Medicare, Aetna
Veteran's medical care);
Veteran's membership,
Veteran's I.D.,
credit cards,
(J.C. Penney, Sears,
Pergament)
and of course
a Foxwoods' Wampum.

I find his driver's license,
with picture faded
and a piece of notepaper
neatly folded,
where phone numbers
scratched in familiar scrawl
are etched.
Mine first,
work, home, cell,
my sister and brother's,
Aunt Mary's, Aunt Loretta's,
Aunt Antoinette's.

I hold the wallet,
clasping it,
caressing it
rubbing my fingers over the smooth leather
unconsciously bringing it to my chest.

His scent,
a combination of Old Spice
and liniment
lingers.

I see him
standing before me
warm gentle eyes,
gray eyes, the color of slate,
unruly white hair,
impish smile,
dimpled chin.
I remember
daughter and father
fishing, playing ball
the driving range
Mets baseball
singing, dancing
and train rides to Manhattan.
I remember holding his
arm tightly, dressed
in silk and lace
he handsomely
in tuxedo.
I remember
the adoring grandfather to six,
my son's buddy,
mentor,
and I acknowledge in my heart
just how much
I so miss the man
who carried this wallet
in baggy old work pants.

Copyright © 2006 Marian A. Michelotti. All rights reserved.

Comments (1)

...
written by Peggy, July 27, 2008

This is very touching....a warm piece. Bless you.