The Brickworks

 

The first time I saw my daddy cry
was the day the tracks got pulled up.
The world had changed they said,
time had bypassed us they said.
The brickworks was forced to close,
it could no longer operate at a loss.

 

Loss is what tore apart my daddy

the day he cried. He could feel it

in his tired, brittle bones as he sat

staring out the window of our home

at the factory that was now nothing

more than an abstract pile of scrap iron.

A whirlwind of old torn newspapers
blew across the road, over the raised
gravel beds where the tracks once lay,
pushed against a sagging, rusted
chain-link fence. Yes sir, I can do that,
my daddy said under his breath,
yes sir, I can work weekends 
and holidays, he was nodding his head,
yes sir, I can come in early, stay late.

The long mornings became the most
difficult part of the day. He and my
momma sat at our round wooden table,
doing their best to sip dark coffee and
eat buttered toast with homemade jam.
They were silent most mornings
before daddy went to the window to
monitor any changes. We used to play
outside that window, in the yard.
When he squinted, he could see us
laughing, running around through the
water whirling out of the sprinkler he
bought at now-closed A-1 Mercantile.
I remember my daddy’s smile that day.

​

*Originally appeared in The Diaspora, UC Berkeley