Lines to my Father

We grew up poor. I guess by choice. When I was in 2nd Grade, my father left a promising insurance job and pursued carpentry instead. To this day, I haven’t asked him why but I believe this is something he loved to do from the very start. And doing what you love is complicated. For me, this is the inclination of a true artist. He is not one of Tolstoy’s ‘gangs of carpenters hoping for high pay’ in Moscow.

 

My father’s name is Romeo
But people call him ‘Joe’

He can hoist a giant rafter

And build a house without a helper

No, Joe is a not a Superman

Joe is just a carpenter and a creative man

Like the Joe with a halo

From a small village of Tobago

At 15, I became his helper

But he never wished me to become a carpenter

I remember when we shared a meal together

And said  he did the same with his father

I started working with my father during school breaks until I graduated in college. I can count on my fingers and remember all the ones he constructed for 20 years because he almost build houses-elegant and inexpensive, single-handedly. Today, my father is turning 60- still pre- occupied with calculations and combinations. I need to do nothing but give him tools.