The Bucket

Every day the bucket a-go-a well. One day the bottom a-go drop out. – Bob Marley

It was a misty morning on the family farm,
cardinals and wrens calling from the junipers,
my father in his bib overalls,
performing his morning chores
while I milked the goats,
their moist muzzles pressing against my forearms.

“Son, come over here,” Dad called.
He was near the weathered barn,
a tall Dutchman, his hands the size of catcher’s mitts.
When I got to his side
he was standing over a wooden bucket filled with water,
its surface as placid as a cavern pool.

He plunged one arm into the liquid, then removed it.
The water rippled, quickly regaining its stasis.
“If you ever think you’re indispensable,” said Dad,
stick your hand in a bucket of water, then pull it out.
Go ahead, son. Try it.”

I followed his example,
in and out,
the brief interlude returning to stillness.
Dad laughed and ruffled my hair,
his palm nearly engulfing my head.

The other day, I looked at his picture on the mantle,
the one we displayed at his funeral.
He was dressed in his Army uniform,
his eyes already fixed on a distant battlefield.

And for an instant, the water stirred
before settling again,
as if a pebble had been dropped in a midnight lake,
no witnesses but darkness and time.