Uncle Tom

His station wagon pulled
to a stop in our driveway
that morning.
"Who can that be?" my mother
asked nobody in particular.

A man, dressed casually and
under a soft hat, looked
around and just stood there.

"It's Tom," my mother said,
"It's your Uncle Tom,"
and started for the door.
Of course, we reached
the door first.

I remember the last time
Uncle Tom visited with us.
I remember the times he would
dump out a box on the dining room table.
Colored paper, erasers, paper clips,
rubber bands, yellow, blue and white
cards and I had never before seen such
an array of pencils, except in school.

My uncle Tom was a printer
My gift the last time —
a small lead plate, reading:
“MARY ELIZABETH JONES.”

This morning,
his one glass eye stopped us.
Even his smile, as my mother
approached and he gave her
a big hug, didn't move us closer.

Reaching into his wagon,
he came out with two oranges
placed them in each of our hands,
"Here," he said, "for you —
all the way from my trees
in Florida.

"Where's Joe?" he asked.
And before anyone answered,
his head in and out of his wagon again:
"This is for him."

The last time he was here,
Joe asked him if he could
drive his wagon.
"Oh no, this old pal of mine
has to take me all the way
back to your Aunt Bessie,
bless her."