Hand Me Down

And for me, a question comes to mind

today, can I, should I even try to write

a poem today, a poem about a poem I

wrote some thirty-seven years ago?

Why not, I figure, let’s give it a try.

I feel it is important for me not to

forget the memory. Not that you or

most folks will care, but I find the

need to revisit a special time again

and to share.

Some memorable moments are well

worth recounting because, although

seeming somewhat inconsequential,

they aptly portray the essence of life

in a simply profound way.

Such was a day, an hour or so spent

with my Aunt Jo and her aging mother

in Park Ridge, a moderately affluent

middle class suburban Neighborhood

outside of Chicago, Illinois.

I sat and listened to them in a conver-

sation recounting past years of their

family life. And like a fortunate and

respectful “fly-on-the-wall” I did not

interrupt for it was their story to tell.

Stories such as this have been and often

are retold by many families in years past,

to this day, and shall be handed down for

eons to come as long as mankind exists on

Earth with something worthwhile to say.

Question for me is how to end a poem

about a poem and do justice to writing it

in the first place? Read on, dear friends

and family members. Read on, and listen

to those who have something of value to

say. All of us came from some place...

CH, 2019

Over Morning Coffee

Over morning coffee, Mrs. Troy talks about

her life, her times, and the beautiful children

with flowing curls as if they were still there

buzzing around the neighborhood. “A wonder-

ful place to live,” she says, “where Father Louis

took good care of his flock...and fresh-baked

bread was a part of every meal.

“We had a new car every few years, even during

The Depression. Dad always bought his cars new.

Said he wasn’t going to fuss with someone else’s

trouble.”

Mrs. Troy talks about her life, her times as if they

still roamed around Logan Square. And her daughter,

grown away as well, fills in some fond recollections

of ‘who’ and ‘when’ people and times like them are

no longer there except in resurrected conversations

such as these.

“We should have put the recorder on,” her daughter

laments once and again as she and her mother walk

arm and arm out the door on their way to the grocery

store, talking about shopping now, and frozen vegeta-

bles, and a good price on chicken breasts, and how

much food was left in the refrigerator when Dad died

a year ago in May.

“How Dad loved to eat,” Mrs. Troy says. “He would eat

most anything. But I don’t need much myself anymore.

Maybe just some apples will do.

Chris Hanch, 1982