In memory of my father-in-law
by Janet Brice Parker
The windchimes outside my studio sound like distant church bells. Their
tones are low and pleasing to my ears. A rushing waterfall nearby rolls
over the chimes and reaches up to birds singing in the trees. Music created
beyond the screened door. Papa made the windchimes. He crafted them from
scraps he found at the factory. Chimes that were created from noisy, clanging
metal against metal became soothing, healing melodies. Papa was handsome
with his shock of white hair and tanned skin. He spent weekends planting
and working his garden. Delicious, lush results were appreciated by every
member of the family. Colorful rewards which were more than just food.
They were his gifts to us. This father-in-law of mine was not in my life
for many years. Not nearly long enough. I felt as though I was just getting
to know him, to feel comfortable in asking his assistance. His delight
was to be needed. I was learning to enter into conversation with this
quiet, yet witty man. His life taught me not to wait too long. Not to
wait until I'm unafraid to reach out. I miss him. There is a vacant seat
when Big Band music entertains us on summer evenings in the park. But
my husband's smile is the same as his father's and his feet tap to the
music of Papa's era. And the windchimes are playful on the breeze.
Janet Brice Parker. BFA, University of Alabama. Professional artist for
thirty five years. Amateur writer. Poetry and short stories published
in Jimmy Buffett's COCONUT TELEGRAPH, Key West Florida, LUCIDITY, Houston,
Texas, Trouvere company WRITER'S GAZETTE NEWSLETTER, BLOUNT COUNTIAN NEWSPAPER.
Wife, mother of two married sons, Christian, Involved in the lives and
spiritual growth of numerous black children.
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