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Hole in One
by Paulette Demers Turco
It’s just luck, most golfers say,
unless it happens when they play.
Dad’s hole in one, at eighty-one,
was on a par-three hole. The sun
still low, the heat had yet to build.
Each swing he took with ease instilled
in me his sense of calm, while Mom,
cool when sheltered by a palm,
was careful to withhold her glee,
she keeping score for Dad and me.
Dad’s buddy joined us for the round
and was the one who’d boast, I found
the ball, while we searched in the rough
around the green. Well sure enough,
it’s in the cup. We’d watched the ball
slam against the pin. We all
believed it ricocheted somewhere
as rattling metal held our stare.
We rushed across the green, looked down.
That’s it! This news would spread through town.
Dad posed for photos by the sign
the clubhouse made, Dad’s own design,
his name inked in. That quirky hit–
I’m thrilled how Dad showed off a bit.
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