Gentle Giants, for Upali Cooray, 1939-2009

Gentle Giants, written January 09.

Your estranged father meets you in a coffee shop.

Chocolate is shaken into hearts on the cappuccino,

and you cannot bear to stir the cup. He leans in, says

he held you the longest at birth, he has not forgotten,

that his mother died before he could show her the value

in her laughter. He and you buzz the same busy hum.

He does not want his mistakes to play out their grain

into the future that stretches beyond his time, that only

love matters. His wet eyes squeeze your lungs,

so long held in hard breath against the world

that this open palm breaks you, cut-string body

crumpled against a velvet moss tree.

The cafe sees the tallest man in the world beckons

to a five year old girl in white filigree kneesocks,

hair bright squeaky question mark bunches,

and curl the redwood cedar of himself down

to give her something. Her eyes widen, take in

his leaves, fronds of his scarf tickling her nose.

She feels her hand opened and shut and looks inside;

an origami ship. He straightens up with a wink.

She is steamrolled by this blend of size

and smallness of gesture, a dainty string rope ladder

unrolled to the ground from a vast spaceship.

Your father belongs to this forest, gentle giants

with soft steps forming stairways from fingers

for minute quests; making cradles from kindness,

silent open arms that welcome you back.

~by Jasmine Cooray