R L Swihart


Three Pieces

1.
Everyone in my family remembers, I don’t, I have to make it up

Over the dining table in the new house (behind the old house and beside the pond)
hung a round chandelier with clear bulbs. It was really an old wagon wheel. 
Wood. Dad made some changes. The bulbs might’ve been 
frosted and shaped like flames

Dad made lots of things. He often reused materials, especially wood. The large cross 
beam between the open kitchen and living room came from a barn in Upstate NY. 
The old railroad ties he picked up at work. He used them to line the driveway.
He used them to make a floor in the shed. When we tore down the old barn,
which sat midway between the old house and new, I asked him where
he got the wood. “Bought it, brand new,” he said. “But I got
a whale of a deal”


2.
We were still upfront. I can’t tell you how many times it happened. It happened, and more 
than once. But the glasses I’m wearing make them blur into one. Was there money 
involved, I doubt it. We never bet. Were our parents home, I don’t recall. Someone 
had a wristwatch. Winning wasn’t the only thrill: two other things added to 
the excitement: the mode of transport (bare feet) and the track (icy snow). 
We opened the front door. The screen door was an Olympic gate. I held 
the watch and timed him. He held the watch and timed me. I slipped
once by the spruce and almost forgot to raise the red flag on 
the mailbox. He slipped and hit the red maple and broke 
his stride because of a passing car


3.
The farther back I go, the darker things get. They get so dark they almost become 
light

Between the old house and the garage was an empty space. Dad filled that space. He added 
a huge room, without a dividing wall, that became a larger dining area and a second family 
room. I can see Aunt Deborah’s dark behemoth of a highboy. I can see an old wood stove 
sitting on the thick stone tiles, a dog sleeping on either side. I can’t see the walls or carpet, 
but I can see an old piano. A man called Big Ray has adjusted the “screw stool” and is 
tickling the ivories. To Ray’s right is a piece of sheet music (it has nothing to do with 
him: he’s riffing on a gospel song). Wait a sec, now I can read the title page:
“House of the Rising Sun”   



Second Time

I don’t mind “going under” (in fact I kinda like it). I suppose the IV prick 
is the worst and even that’s not so bad

*

I didn’t catch the nurse’s name this time (my hearing is hit-or-miss), but somehow 
we got on the subject of Detroit and she said her nephew lives in a suburb 
(Woodhaven, she thought, but I didn’t know it) and just last week she met
him in Laughlin (Vegas is too busy for them). She also said she saw some 
very bad-looking houses in Detroit, but was quick to add that most 
houses there were big and beautiful

*

After a short interval Dr. A followed Dr. Z and, as is probably his wont,
he rattled off a bunch of questions re personal stuff and meds. Then
he said, “See you in a few” and left, shutting the rainbow
curtain but only in part

*

I was semi-surprised that I was still awake as they rolled me down the hallway
and into the OR. It wasn’t the case last time: I was “out” before I left pre-op
and only “came to” when I was back in recovery. I mentioned it as they
were trying to get me from the gurney to the table. Dr. A chimed in: 
“Typical, my friend. See me in 6 months, you won’t remember 
any of this”

*

Addendum:

Home now. Last day of white stockings with holes for the big toes. I didn’t forget 
and doubt I’ll forget in 6 months. I remember being wheeled through the hallway
and into the OR. I remember being asked to lift my butt and scooch over
to the table. I remember the two shiny disks on robotic arms above me.
I remember saying hello to Regine

R L Swihart was born in Michigan but now resides in Long Beach CA. His work has sparsely dotted both the Net and hardcopy literary journals (Cordite, Pif Magazine, The Literary Bohemian, Offcourse, Otoliths, Denver Quarterly, Quadrant Magazine, Poetry South). His third book of poetry was released July 2020: Woodhenge.

 
 

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