Christian Mack
Give Us This Day
Today smells like damp sawdust and
sounds like a choir of tools
singing with every bump
the beaten-down truck bed endures.
Dad grips the steering wheel with purpose;
his hands are stained with purposes of the past,
a lifetime of honesty has varnished them as smooth
as the old ball glove at my feet.
The glove should have been thrown out long ago;
the weaving, which was once tightly spun,
has unraveled with the passage of time.
On most days it would have looked pitiful,
but rain stirs an earnest sense of nostalgia
so that every tear in the leather serves to solidify
the glove’s right to occupy the floorboard.
The voice on the radio sounds like split logs,
gruff, but not quite whole.
He sounds tired of hearing himself speak.
I can’t blame him. So am I.
Out the window,
a cross breaks the wave of trees, planted
in the grass. Fresh flowers are crucified
on the venerable reminder.
I blink and it’s gone.
We will pass it again tomorrow
and a new bouquet will be left to die.
“Lord willing.”
That’s what dad always says when I say such things--
“See you tomorrow.”
“Lord willing, son.”
I look at my dad, his eyes a shallow caramel,
lit by the dull light sifting through the clouds.
The corners are creased and kind.
I think back to the cross--
I hope one day my hands will look like Dad’s
—we will pass it again tomorrow,
Lord willing.
Give Us This Day
Today smells like damp sawdust and
sounds like a choir of tools
singing with every bump
the beaten-down truck bed endures.
Dad grips the steering wheel with purpose;
his hands are stained with purposes of the past,
a lifetime of honesty has varnished them as smooth
as the old ball glove at my feet.
The glove should have been thrown out long ago;
the weaving, which was once tightly spun,
has unraveled with the passage of time.
On most days it would have looked pitiful,
but rain stirs an earnest sense of nostalgia
so that every tear in the leather serves to solidify
the glove’s right to occupy the floorboard.
The voice on the radio sounds like split logs,
gruff, but not quite whole.
He sounds tired of hearing himself speak.
I can’t blame him. So am I.
Out the window,
a cross breaks the wave of trees, planted
in the grass. Fresh flowers are crucified
on the venerable reminder.
I blink and it’s gone.
We will pass it again tomorrow
and a new bouquet will be left to die.
“Lord willing.”
That’s what dad always says when I say such things--
“See you tomorrow.”
“Lord willing, son.”
I look at my dad, his eyes a shallow caramel,
lit by the dull light sifting through the clouds.
The corners are creased and kind.
I think back to the cross--
I hope one day my hands will look like Dad’s
—we will pass it again tomorrow,
Lord willing.
Christian Mack is currently an undergraduate English and History major at Trevecca Nazarene University and is on the editorial board of Nashville-based literary journal, The Cumberland River Review. His work has appeared in Front Porch Review and Amethyst Review.