Saturday nights, my father rolled up
his white shirt sleeves, laid out an old newspaper,
a tin of Kiwi shoe polish and two soft brushes.
I'd hand him the smaller one to dab against the wax,
inhale the scent of carnauba,
then present him with the polishing brush
and watch his bulging veins buff up a shine
from matt to sheen to mirrored black.
Lots of elbow grease, he'd wink at me
and polish briskly in both directions.
His funeral shoes, my father called them,
always ready by the front door.
You never know when you might have to go
and pay your respects. We never know who's next.
When he died, I was still young.
His brother in sandals, home from the missions
needed shoes to officiate my father's funeral mass.
As he blessed the coffin, wafts of melting wax
brought me back to being my father's acolyte.
I watched his own shoes lead his coffin
out the front door of the church, knew
they were taking him where he had to go.
Breda Joyce is a poet and memoir writer. Her first poetry collection, Reshaping the Light, has just been published (Chaffinch Press).
