Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

When I was young, I played basketball for hours. You wouldn’t believe it now, but back in the day, though I stand at just 5’8”, I had serious game. In the summers, my friend Mark and I shot baskets all day and into the evening in the school yard of Vaux Junior High. One night, in a game of Twenty-One, though pitch dark, we magically did not miss a shot for nearly an hour. We could have closed our eyes anywhere on the court and still have heard the sound of the ball swishing through the net.

As much as I enjoyed playing back then with my friends, I loved shooting hoops even more with my dad. At times, we had an even greater synchronicity. We played One-on-One; I wished I had his height, 6’3”. He was one of those dads who scaled down his play to build my confidence. He demonstrated jump shots, and I showed him my latest street moves. Once in a game of Horse, I dribbled toward the court, carried the ball behind back, and, while turning in the air after leaping, eased the ball beneath my leg then off my fingertips, a gentle layup off the backboard.

In my youth, we never lived together. I wince when I think of myself back then, always trying to dazzle him during visits or whenever I spent time at his home. I continually tried to prove myself worthy of his affection, which was everything to me. Before he arrived to pick me up for the weekend, I carefully placed my new championship trophies within sight in the living room, so that when he saw them, he would heap praise. Do we ever stop seeking our parents’ affirmations and affection?

Today’s lyrically tender poem is another example of how, in writing about our parents, we return ourselves to innocence and possibility, celebrating ourselves in their glow.

Four-in-Hand
by Kweku Abimbola

I am ten and you tell me it's time
I learned. I'm beside myself at this

opportunity to mirror you. You 
tell me to fetch one of your favorites

from the slouched plastic hanger, 
overlain with Father's Day, Christmas,

and birthday neckties. I find the too-nineties 
royal-blue-and-yellow one you wear

only on special Sundays. 
Then to the vanity.

Standing behind me,
you drape it around my neck.

Four-in-hand, the quickest knot. 
Your hands glove mine

as the back of my head nooks 
beneath your Adam's apple.

In front of the vanity, my lips crimp and curl, 
failing to bottle my smile,

growing at each new instruction.
The leather in your voice ripples across my scalp—

this is the closest 
we ever stood.

The last and longest we ever stood 
with your hands over mine—

this time, only over.

With your hands guiding mine— 
for once, only guiding.

Too often, your hands left seamless memories; 
too quietly, I kept them. Kept them

knotted round my collar 
in polyester so fine

you'd call it silk.

“Four-in-Hand" by Kweku Abimbola from SALTWATER DEMANDS A PSALM © 2023 Kweku Abimbola. Used by permission of Graywolf Press.