Smashing Chestnuts by Joan Currie

My father loved teaching
us children tricks—
how to

walk the dog with a yo-yo,
split an apple in half
with our bare hands,
carve an Ivory soap bar
into a fish for the bath.

Best of all,
how to make
horse chestnut conkers
ready for battle.

In the fall,
we walked through the park
to a grove of chestnut trees

and gathered up their mast–
shiny burnt-sienna nuggets
spilled from
green, spiked husks.

We filled our pockets
with the biggest ones.

At his workbench,
Father drilled a hole in each.
We scouted around for
old shoelaces
and threaded them through.

Our driveway was our playing field.
Father taught us
the art of flicking the wrist,
the arc of attack.

We took turns
trying to smash
each other’s conkers
with strategic blows.

Yesterday, I came across
horse chestnuts in my park.

I think I’ll make
some conkers again.

Father would get
a kick out of that.