My father loved to whistle. When he was off alone,
working on one project or another, you might well

have been drawn to his odd, unidentifiable sounds,
before realizing my father was making them.

He had a powerful singing voice, resonant baritone,
but as he aged, he sang less and less, so I remember

little singing, much more of his whistling, which was
a different matter entirely. This whistling when he was

alone was by no means virtuosic. You might have
called my father a closet whistler, unintentional,

the sound akin to praying or chanting, semi-tuneless,
that at times reminiscent of the sound wind makes

when it set telephone wires thrumming. I don’t know
when he began this private, toneless whistling, but I

do know he was capable, when he chose, to whistle
recognizable melodies, with a touch of musical verve.

I would happen upon him, and when he became
conscious of my presence, he’d stop his whistle-hum,

either speak to me, or busy himself with what he was doing.
I never thought to ask about his peculiar whistling.

Some days my wife questions my humming sounds
and wonders why I can’t just sing like normal people.

# # #

Glen Sorestad is a well known Canadian poet from Saskatoon, who has published over twenty books of poems. His poetry has appeared in over seventy anthologies and textbooks. His poems have appeared in publications all over North America, in many other countries as well and have been translated into eight languages at last count.

Photo: Mateo Avila Chinchilla