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Uncle Bill
Susan Mahan

I rest my teacup on the sturdy wooden table
Uncle Bill made me ten years ago.
I use it every day and sometimes forget it’s there.
But I could never forget Uncle Bill.
Strong and quiet,
generous to a fault,
he was the first Italian I knew up close.
I loved his liquid brown eyes,
warm smile, and understated laugh,
sort of a low chuckle.
He fostered in me the sense of security
that everything would be okay.
The father of three rough-and-tumble boys,
he took my sisters and me out in his rowboat
and made us wear lifejackets. 
We sat very still.
I can still remember
the muscles in his forearms
as he rowed to get us safely back to shore.


Susan Mahan has been writing poetry since her husband died in 1997. A frequent reader at poetry venues, and the author of four chapbooks, she joined the editorial staff of The South Boston Literary Gazette in 2002. Susan lives in East Weymouth, Massachusetts.


Post New Comment:
What a nice sense of security. Every one should have that kind of an Uncle Bill.
Posted 02/15/2013 09:49 PM
Love is in the gestures. Fine poem.
Posted 02/12/2013 10:28 AM
Safety in family--not always there but it's worth noting w Uncle Bill. Life preservers!
Posted 02/12/2013 09:01 AM

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