Archive
11/17/11
Pieces of Paper
To say that my dad was a fastidious, inveterate saver, An accumulator, amasser, conserver, curator, archivist, Of every single detailed piece of paper
Relating to his day-to-day journey through existence, Down to the most minuscule scrap of information Confirming his participation in all of his life's enterprises
(Be it Biltwell Co.'s first federal tax return, submitted in 1930, A paid-in-full July 20–22, 1942, bill, of $18.72, For a three-day stay at the St. Moritz, on Central Park South,
The hundred and thirty handwritten courtship letters He received, between 1934 and 1938, from his beloved Charlotte, Whom he'd met at a resort in Elkhart Lake, Indiana,
Or thousands of bulging, browning manila file folders Jamming his post-retirement basement-repository of cabinets, Containing the history of his capitalistic transactions
Through the fifties, sixties, seventies, eighties, and nineties, When he ventured out, intrepidly, into investments Focusing on a shopping center, a hotel, and the stock market) . . .
To say that my father, Saul Brodsky, got rid of nothing Would be a universal truth tantamount to taxes, gravity, and death; Indeed, he was the passionate keeper of his every heartbeat,
So totally in control of the cosmos (his, as well) That even the stars, the planets, the moon, God Himself, Paid obeisance to him, by taking leave of the sky, each dawn, Just in time to allow him to awaken at 5:45, Shower, dress in one of his impeccable Hickey Freeman suits, And drive downtown, to 1128 Washington Avenue,
To start all over again, from absolute scratch, Making a heady profit, by reinventing success, One memo, letter, receipt, bill, form, ledger page at a time,
So that someday, one day, someone like me, his oldest son, Might just come searching, among his folders, cabinets, boxes, And recreate him, from pieces of paper — his living breaths.
11/17/11
|
|||
|
|||
