Father’s Day #71

 

worst day 

forced

to remember

i

bad days

sent

to the basement

pants down

told

to feel guilty

angry

can’t

let him hear me

one day

won’t

let him near me

ii

good days

laughing

in our campground

swimming

In the river

diving

from the high rock

(photo: grandpa diving, too)

cooking

on the griddle

striding

through the mountains

riding

through the deserts

(photo: Pueblo girl and me)

fishing

In the ocean

playing

picnic baseball

watching

late-night movies

(photo: me between his knees)

iii

long nights

sitting

in motel rooms

slowly

watching

him get drunker

listening

as his

words come tumbling:

fearful

he won’t

find a job now

tearful

mourning

his lost family

weeping 

why’d my

mother leave him

moaning

all his

bad decisions

loathing

who he

sees inside him

owning

up to

his addictions

snarling

at his

very being

growling

“should have 

done it long ago”

falling

into 

snoring sleeping

iv

long days

apart

from my children

silence

expands

yearly wider

I feel

unsure

how to bridge it

thinking

have I

somehow hurt them?

is their

need for

father over

and I

simply

no more matter?

I keep

sending

my weak signals

hearing 

nothing

but more silence

learning

little

gaining patience

v

old days

known from

whispered stories --

from a

window

in an office

to the

pavement

of Dearborn Street

it was

sixty-

four feet and change

and my

father’s

father flew it

swift and

silent

and his landing

turned his

young wife

to a widow

and his

two boys

to half-orphans:

to be 

honest, 

though, they didn’t

really

know him

as a parent

he was

more like

an old uncle

who came

weekends

from the city

took them

fishing

and on Sunday

walked with

them and 

with their mother

to the

church where

he was laid out

wearing 

flowers

and his best suit

vi

Happy

Father’s 

Day the cheerful

cards shout

brightly

from the store shelves

voices

echo

on the TV

as my

laptop

fills with photos

and my

heart shrinks

back a little

reaches

for a

pen and paper

takes me

to a

quiet corner

where the

joy and grief

are one