I visit my father’s house in Maine,
where everything is farther apart.
His self-built rancher sits on seventy acres,
unworked save a patch of vegetables out back.
On a clear day you can see
the nearby mountain through the trees.

He fancied himself a farmer, a hunter,
but over the years too many unfiltered cigarettes
took their toll. He lost a leg last year
when his veins collapsed,
the brown plaque shutting them down.
Now he hobbles on a prosthesis,
with a walker for support.

We sit at his kitchen table and eat
the sandwiches I brought.
We fill the spaces in the room with chat:
eleven feet of snow last winter,
not the worst he’s seen.
His nearest neighbor is half a mile away.
How he manages on his own,
how he sometimes feels
his phantom leg ache on rainy days.

We try to find connection in our divergent lives,
but it seems awkward.
Finally, we shake hands firmly, like men do.
I think he is glad I came, after all these years,
but I can’t be sure. As I walk out his door
into the fading sun of dusk,
I feel a cold wind blow down from the mountain.

10/04/2001

Posted on 10/04/2001
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt