About Family

three poems by Robert Pavlik

Family portrait 1920

The faces of Europe

The Old World

Wars Famine Displacement Disease

Death

The pear tree blossoms in early spring

Haunted by the past

Its in the eyes

The pores

First run movies on Saturday night

With hot popcorn and cold Cokes

At the Metroplex

Naked Freezing Hungry

Withered crops crushed by

Mud caked bootheels

Driving up Highway 101 with the top down

I live in the present

But the past resides on a shelf in my den

It's a quiet reminder of

Who my grandparents were

What they left behind

And what they bequeathed to me

Uncle Teddy Pekrul

Uncle Teddy was Grandma's brother

An Old World gentleman

In a dark worsted wool suit

White Shirt

Wide silk tie

Polished heavy leather shoes

And argyle socks

His pockets were filled with

Silver dollars

That he doled out to us

My brother and me

His sister's youngest grandsons

Americans born in Cleveland

Of German and Slovak descent

Cherishing those heavy silver disks

Fingering the knurled edge

Closely studying the crowned head and furled eagle

Deciphering blocky letters

Marveling at its beauty

And our sudden unexpected wealth

The adults drank coffee

Smoked Pall Malls

And talked in quiet

Accented voices

While we studied the Sunday Comics

On the floral patterned thick wool carpet

Scrambled up and down the stairway

Wrestled in our bedroom

And shyly inquired about dinner

City chicken and mashed potatoes

Succotash

Milk and apple pie

Later

In our twin beds

The room illuminated by the

Streetlight filtering through the Venetian blinds

We talked about Uncle Teddy

And the shining silver dollars

On our dresser tops

That would be there in the morning

And long after Uncle Teddy

Was gone.

We Three

My wife calls me a machine

I could be taken for a tool

Father was a craftsman

He put my older brother and me on his lathe and turned us at high speed

Making us match a blueprint

Drafted against the backdrop of depression and world war

Our mother was the machine oil

Light

She reduced the friction between us and took the heat.

We came out as unique parts

Bright

Not entirely polished

Rough edges that will not go away.

What we do he could not envision

The plans he used to grind and shape us were torn, stained, incomplete

They didn't show him how we fit into the larger structure.

He still doesn't understand our purpose and function;

With Mom gone there's no more oil to ease the rubs.

Now the old machinist can only stand back and watch

While we work.