Warden

My mother’s father

drove to his warden job

at the maximum security

prison. He drove there

in a Volkswagen Beetle

with a spare tire under

a smiley-face cover.

 

My ears have never caught

Papa yelling. Did that

jail calm him? No, he

quieted the cells. Mother said

his voice was never tinged

with hate, like so many voices

have been.

 

Hate.

 

If I could guess,

I would say, He gave them

love.

 

At first, I thought

he never felt the anger.

I thought he was blessed

with rosebud thoughts,

and I was not.

 

It seemed that every

caring word cascaded from

his mouth as a ballet.

 

Then I read one day

of St. Therese, the Little Flower,

That girl whose name

was kindness.

At 15, she entered the convent.

She wrote, “What matters in life

is not great deeds but

great love.”

Her little way

and her devotion

brought her smiling through

sickness. Though the

tuberculosis could not take

her soul, it took her body.

Those around her thought

her selflessness came easy.

But she fought small battles

every hour.

Therese wrote of

daily denial.

And that is what

made her love.

 

I watch my Papa’s

crinkly eyes,

as he drives me to school

in the 7 am winter darkness.

 

And I know

he is still in that

Volkswagen Beetle,

driving to his warden job

with a smiley spare tire.