by Michael Tveter
As his ship rocked back
and forth, back and forth, my
grandfather wrote love
letters to my grandmother. In
a dusty cabin, clogged with
sailors, his pen wagged over
blank pages as he dreamt about
returning to Norway and his
dark-haired beauty. Those letters were
the only reasons he
returned to the farm where he saw
soldiers torn apart during the
war, saw his classmates mock the only
boy with a German father, and his
drunken father wield his
fists. Had it not been for those
letters, he would never dream
of settling down on the farm, start
a life with four children, and
see his own drunken fists buried in
my Mom’s memories as she
rode the train across Europe with
my Dad – rocking back and forth, back
and forth. Dad’s whispered promises of
children as he looked into
eyes that had seen the loss of
a firstborn. Behind locked cabin
doors, those eyes met, closer
than ever before. Seven
months later, my fists growing
in her womb, Dad’s gentle
touch turned to drunken fists, and
resurrected memories buried in
a shallow grave.
Those same drunken fists carried
me, embraced me, and rocked
me back and forth, back and forth, while
telling fables of my bloodline; from
father to son, memories of battles
won, farmland worked, and trophies
engraved with our family name –
my name.