Visible Ink
Every Tuesday night, my father totes a bucket of lyrics scrawled on 2 x 4 scraps and her father plucks chords on a cream guitar inlaid with mother of pearl.
Thus, Barbie and Ken’s love story unfolds against the soundtrack of our fathers trading carpenter pencils for songwriting dreams.
Barns are raised and cabinets hung for paper-thin offerings that keep scaled peaks over heads and provision in mouths, but all the while Tuesday night melodies play hammer dulcimer in our fathers’ minds.
Barbie and Ken collect gossamer in a cardboard box as sawdust drifts accumulate over dreams. Silver burnishes beards and manual labor callouses fingers hard, making the switch from carpenter pencils to songwriting pens a feat.
Years of Tuesdays: candles lit and music soft, we scrawl ink across paper-thin offerings, hoping to make visible the soundtrack of our fathers’ writing dreams.
To my father, whose calloused hands sustained us, thank you for teaching me to dream.
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Melissa Crytzer Fry
Wow. I'm speechless. I didn't know you were also skilled with poetry, but it doesn't surprise me ONE bit! Beautiful.
Jolina Petersheim
Your encouragement is so kind. Thank you, friend. Xx
Julia Munroe Martin
What a beautiful poem, Jolina — not only did your father teach you to dream but you also clearly inherited his ability to write lyrically. What a lovely tribute to his writing dream.
Jolina Petersheim
I was just thinking last week about how blessed I've been to have parents who supported my writing even though it wasn't a financially lucrative dream. If it weren't for their support, I know I wouldn't have pursued it. I'm so thankful for them.
Leah
Beautiful!
Jolina Petersheim
Thanks, friend!