Porchlight
/Doug Fritock
My father never decorated
for the holidays, never
hung a wreath of fresh greenery
on the door like the neighbors,
or outlined the eaves
of his brick rambler
with strands of jewel-toned bulbs,
or lit up his dim windows
with cozy electric candles
the way my mother did
at her condo across town.
No, if pressed by me or his sister,
he simply flicked on the porchlight
and called it good, forty watts
of yellow incandescence
pooling on the doormat.
Maybe broomed away the cobwebs
that collected during Fall.
I was reminded of this
when I pulled up at his grave
last evening, its stone dark,
its dates unreadable, not even
a lantern, not even a porchlight
to illuminate the dusky lawn.
In fact, if it weren’t for
the poinsettias I’d brought over
last week, I might have forgotten
it was Christmas at all.
Author’s Note: ‘Porchlight’ is part of a series of poems I wrote after my father’s passing that explore his daily routines and ordinary possessions, and the way those once-familiar but previously insignificant habits and objects took on new meaning in light of his absence.
Doug Fritock is a writer, husband, and father of 4 living in Redondo Beach, California. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Rattle, ONE ART, and Whale Road Review among other literary journals. He is an active member of Maya C. Popa's Conscious Writers Collective.
