Notes About The Poem
Bert Stainbrook (Granddad) sitting at his desk where he wrote copious letters to politicans and
letters to the editor of his local newspaper
DREAM DEFERRED
Granddad’s Selectric waited like a relic of belief,
its keys dulled to pewter under years of dust,
yet still holding the shine of his callused hands~
hands that moved with a pianist’s grace
whenever he typed truth into letters
meant for men who rarely listened.
I was small enough to sit beneath his desk,
cross-legged in the hush of click-clack hymns,
learning that words could be armor,
could be lanterns,
could be the way a man keeps faith
with the world he hopes to mend.
Mother’s sigh in the doorway
was the first lesson in surrender~
how dreams can thin themselves
into chores and folded laundry.
I didn’t understand it then,
but her voice carried the weight
of stories she never wrote.
Years later, the attic breathed its dust at me
as I lifted the drop cloth from the Selectric,
its silhouette unchanged,
its silence louder than memory.
The receipt lay inside like a ghost~
$550 printed in vanished ink,
but the sacrifice still legible
in the shape of the paper.
My hands trembled harder
than they ever had grading essays.
The first keystroke jammed,
the second bloomed a perfect A,
and by the third paragraph
I remembered the rhythm
I’d once trusted more than breath.
Somewhere between rafters and revelation,
I understood the truth Granddad left me:
a dream doesn’t disappear
when deferred~
it waits, patient as an attic typewriter,
for the moment you finally dare
to press the next key.
poem written based upon this memoir vignette posted at Poetry Soup:
poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
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