My Father’s Chest
Madelyn Chennells
I fell against the damaged lid of the chest, my mind swarming with the scent of honey in the
afternoon sun. It’s easy, they say, to write poetry. It’s more difficult to tell your story. I
envisioned my Mother, delicate skin like a moth’s, eyes the color of distant train tracks with
grass to paint the edges of the iris. I listened to the trees rushing with the smooth air. I listened
to my solemn heart beat like an old drum and I tried to understand.
“You’re so much alone, Margie,” she’d say. “You’re so much in your own world.”
I felt the chest now, splintering my hands as I rubbed it. My Father’s chest, or more
accurately, it belonged to him. I hesitated to open it, feeling its roughness on my skin, falling
asleep to my Father’s words, closer to him than I’d WfW"&VV