My Father's Wallet

My Father’s Wallet

In the back of my desk drawer, behind the pieces
of broken watches, under unread instructions
for cameras long gone and mileage clubs
for airlines now defunct, I found forgotten
my father’s wallet. It is one of the tokens
I took to remember him, which I have
even without remembering the wallet,
which has been zippered closed probably
since he died in 1965. The embossed design
on both sides of the fold is flattened somewhat
by the years and the gold lettering inside says
“Genuine Leather.” Pinned to the change pocket
is a tiny silver police badge, a gift from one of
my father’s customers, a Brooklyn cop who gave
him it after a haircut as a tip. “To get you out
of trouble and speeding tickets,” he said.
My father never got in trouble. He didn’t speed.
He didn’t even drive, but he carried the badge.
The wallet’s yellowed cellophane compartments
contain my father’s life: his Social Security Card
signed as I remember from my homework assignments,
not one, but two First National City Bank cardboard
Preferred Credit Cards “issued as evidence of your
excellent record in the Personal Finance Department,”
the bank’s 1952 calendar with a three inch ruler printed
at the top, his K of C 4th Degree and District Deputy ID
from 1964, along with photos of the family as I have
forgotten we all used to be. And there, behind a
chubby crying me and Santa Claus, a folded paper day –
May 30, 1942 Saturday – lettered in my father’s hand
the words, “Joseph Edward Scalia II born 2:35 PM.
So very happy, my son.”

© 2012 J. E. Scalia from Poetry In Alphabetical Order