Ole
Ole. The house, of course, was smaller than that remembered house where Ole taught us nephews what life was curious joy. Let me start that over again. Ole.
The house, of course, was smaller
than that remembered house
where Ole taught us nephews that life was curious joy.
I first remember photographs
brought to life in some dark room we never saw.
I think now that he knew
they’d be more magic to us boys
if they just magically appeared.
The pictures were of clay-happy skiers skimming cotton alps,
childhood scenes blown bigger than our lives
by this man who lived as though life were the biggest play of all.
We listened, non-touching, as he loved his guns.
I don’t recall him ever talking of an animal he’d shot,
as though he so loved life he shot only his guns, never life.
We watched as he talked with his strong, gentle hands
to tell us that in life anything is possible.
His was a Star Trek world before Captain Kirk,
2001 in 1949.I’d come there on that sun-spring day to say goodbye,
for Ole planned to go away and not come back.
You know exactly what I mean.
I yet can’t bring myself to say that word,
not in talking of a man whose life was life.
Annie said, “He may not recognize you, Bill.”
But recognize he did, with eyes at once alive.
The message in them fills me yet today:
life may have its ebbs and flows, but never really ends.
His hands still gentle, strong in mine,
still guiding me toward hope, and more than hope,
toward love of life.
For life was all that Ole ever knew, or ever taught.I did not, could not, go back.
The service that they held for him was not for him.
He’s still alive, you know,
in the hundred thousand minds he taught to smile.
The service should have been for those that Ole never touched.
They’ve lived much less than lucky you and I.
Perhaps some way he’ll touch them yet.
If I know Ole, and thank you, God, I do,
he’ll figure out a way.