The Day We Carried the Paintings

Light came in

between trees

that had dropped their leaves.

A wood I painted

when I was young.

In those days

I painted pictures

to show my teacher.

As the day to take them drew near,

even the parts that were fine

kept troubling me.

At my elder brother's factory

there was a three-wheeled truck.

We loaded the paintings

onto it.

I climbed on

beside them.

Once a week.

Sometimes once in ten days.

Even on the way

I looked only at the paintings.

Would they shake.

Would they scratch.

Where would the teacher look first.

The truck

gave one great lurch.

A painting

tipped sideways.

From behind,

two hands caught it at once.

“It's all right.”

It was my brother.

I

checked the corners of the painting first.

Years later

I hung that painting

on the wall again.

I slowly drew away

the hand that had steadied its back.

The weight of the painting

stayed in my palm

a moment.

The moment the painting tipped.

The two hands that rose without a word.

At the bottom of the picture

I saw my name.

The name

was in front.

The hands

were behind.