Two Halves of a Whole

Suzanne Morris

May 29, 2022

-for Ruth and Frank

I

On a morning such as this

when clouds crisp and white are

pinned to a chilly blue firmament

white bed sheets are 

hoisted like flags

along the clothesline in the

backyard of my childhood

billowing and flicking

to the finger-snapping rhythms

of the Gulf Coast breeze

and Mama in her apron– 

starched and ironed–

is coming through

the back door then down

the porch steps and

heading to the clothesline

where she will lift both arms

like a Hallelujah,

release the

weathered wooden clothespins along the top

and drop them into her apron  pocket

then gather the sheets

in a wide embrace and

bear them inside like a pure,

unblemished offering.

That night after a warm bath

my big sister and I will

slip into our prim twin beds

and inhale the windblown scent of clean

as we close our eyes to sleep.

Mama is not given to hugging or

taking us on her lap

but she believes– and

rightly so– that

the two of us, tucked in between

crisp white linens

fair enough to grace a Sunday altar,

our bodies safe and warm and

soft with bath powder

know that we are cherished

above everything else.

II

My hands are like my father’s– 

slender, long-fingered– 

good for playing the piano.

Life was harsh where

Daddy grew up– out in Brady, Texas– 

harsh and dry and flat, a searing wind

howling across the prairie.

To me, a refinement like piano lessons

doesn’t fit into such a place

though I remember the story of

how Daddy’s piano teacher

whacked his hands hard

with a ruler when he made a mistake

and that seems in keeping

with the landscape.

I envision a male figure 

looming high above

red-faced, grim, righteous, a

telltale gleam of pleasure in his eyes

each time he inflicts pain on the

small boy in knee pants.

After one too many thunderous whacks,

Daddy got up and walked out,

and never took another lesson.

Apparently the experience didn’t ruin

his love of music or dull his good ear.

He willingly paid for piano lessons

as I was growing up

and played duets with me

on our big upright piano.

I wonder now if he ever thought of

the cruel teacher with the ruler

as we sat together on the bench,

Daddy playing bass, and me, treble,

his love warm and tender as

our thighs pressed close

and our four hands rose and fell

above the keys.

A novelist with eight published works spanning forty years, Suzanne Morris now focuses largely on writing poems.   Her poetry is included in the anthology, No Season for Silence - Texas Poets and Pandemic (Kallisto GAIA Press, 2020).  Examples have also appeared in The Texas Poetry Assignment and The New Verse News.