Tim Nolan

Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their tough shells—the smooth chocolaty skin of them—thanks for the boiling water— itself a miracle and a mystery— thanks for the seasoned sauce pan and the old wooden spoon—and all the neglected instruments in the drawer— the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife— the apple slicer that creates six perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson— thanks for the humming radio—thanks for the program on the radio about the guy who was a cross-dresser— but his wife forgave him—and he ended up almost dying from leukemia— (and you could tell his wife loved him entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)— thanks for the brined turkey— the size of a big baby—thanks— for the departed head of the turkey— the present neck—the giblets (whatever they are)—wrapped up as small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs— thanks—thanks—thanks— for the candles lit on the table—the dried twigs— the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase— thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light.

How can we believe he did it— every day—for all those years? We remember how the musicians gathered for him—and the prostitutes arranged themselves the way he wanted— and even the helmeted monkeys with their little toy car cerebella— posed—and the fish on the plate— remained after he ate the fish— Bones—What do we do with this life?—except announce:Joy. Joy.Joy—from the lead— to the oil—to the stretch of bright canvas—stretched—to the end of it all.

They grow in number all the time The cat, the Mother, the Father The grandparents, aunts, and uncles Those I knew well and hardly at all My best friend from when I was ten The guy who sat with me in the back Of the class where the tall kids lived Bill the Shoemaker from Lyndale Avenue The Irish poet with rounded handwriting They live in The Land of Echo, The Land Of Reverb, and I hear them between The notes of the birds, the plash of the wave On the smooth rocks. They show up When I think of them, as if they always Are waiting for me to remember I drive by their empty houses I put on their old sweaters and caps I wear their wristwatches and spend Their money. So now I'm in six places At once—if not eighteen or twenty So many places to be thinking of them Strange how quiet they are with their presence So humble in the low song they sing Not expecting that anyone will listen

The high school kids are so beautiful in their lavender blouses and crisp white shirts. They open their mouths to sing with that far-off stare they had looking out from the crib. Their voices lift up from the marble bed of the high altar to the blue endless ceiling of heaven as depicted in the cloudy dome— and we—as the parents—crane our necks to see our children and what is above us— and ahead of us—until the end when we are invited up to sing with them—sopranos and altos—tenors and basses—to sing the great Hallelujah Chorus—and I’m standing with the other stunned and gray fathers—holding our sheet music— searching for our parts—and we realize— our voices are surprisingly rich—experienced— For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth— and how do we all know to come in at exactly the right moment?—Forever and ever— and how can it not seem that we shall reign forever and ever—in one voice with our beautiful children—looking out into all those lights.