for my father

Long after you were gone
I found your cuff links 
in a velvet pouch among my 
bracelets. The A (for Arthur) etched
in gold ovals, leaned right, the tail 
swirled left, like a wave receding.
There’s mystery in the curls,
from a time before font names 
were familiar, when elaborate letters
pledged stories to come.

I never saw you wear them—never 
watched you twist the levers into slits 
on cuffed shirts, or slip your arm into
the sleeve of a pinstriped suit.
Your work clothes were heavy twill—  
drawstring pants, an apron—
you left at midnight with them
stashed in a canvas sack, and headed
deep into the Bronx.

Over time, they wore and frayed,
stained with jelly and chocolate.
In middle school, after Home Ec 
ended, you surprised me with the
sewing machine. In late afternoon, 
at the dinette, you cut patches 
while I mended holes and edges.  
My toe touched the pedal, the machine
whirred—you asked me to print
your initials inside along the seams.
                        

It’s happening, Dad.
I can’t see without my …  
Well, you remember.  
It’s all fuzzy now.
You warned me that 

someday print would 
shrink. Warranties, washing
instructions, recipes would blur, 
require me to lengthen my arm. 
You told me not to read in dim

light or sit in the front row at 
movies, as if this could somehow
delay the inevitable. We were always 
the ones people nudged, “Can you
read this for me – I don’t have my 

glasses.” And now my glasses are
everywhere (the memory, 
your other omen, is going, too). 
I flip them up and down
depending on text size. I can

still see road signs and people 
crossing the street. I can still see
you asleep in your chair … 
newspaper splayed on your chest,
glasses stuck in your steel wool curls.