Letter to my father
I turned the corner on Wilbur Street,
driving home from work,
admiring the perfect line of pink and purple crabapple trees,
exploding colorful branches,
in the setting sun,
when suddenly
my heart stopped.
I had to fill my chest with the cool spring air
and get my heart to start beating again,
and recognize,
that the short man in front of me
with a dirty brown overcoat and a worn-out Fedora,
his palms clasped tightly behind his back,
was not you
Father.
For one short second though
I thought I had another chance
to tell you that
I am no longer ashamed of your
old, worn out clothes.
I imagined I could tell let you know that
I too walk with my hands behind my back.
My children think—they wouldn’t say it to me—that I am an old man, who,
like you,
places his denture in a cup half full of tap water,
when he goes to sleep.
For a short second
I thought
I could touch your shoulder,
and tell you that I now know.
And even though this short man in brown overcoat was not you.
I do have another chance, here,
in this letter
which I send off to you by express
heart mail.
Forgive me Father.
What did they do to you Daddy?
What did they do to you Daddy,
that your eyes are so grey,
and heavy,
like fields of dirty snow,
and you repeat Yes, Yes, Yes,
so that you may make it to an uncertain
tomorrow?
Is life so sweet,
and does the sun shine so strong?
Who taught you to say yes?
At this late hour,
when the sun is setting
and my head is heavy,
I wonder
What silent secrets are you hiding from me?
What did they teach you Daddy?
A poem to my Father.
Daddy, please, tell me, what did I do
when, in the garden,
I fell and cut my knee so deeply,
Just as the sun was setting behind the church?
I remember red burning blood,
Surrounded by deeply green grass,
What did I do?
And when you slapped mother like a thunder,
and told her that she could leave,
and that you loved her no longer,
what did I do then, Daddy?
Please what did I do?
Today I told my son that before horses
he loved elephants.
“Tanas” I said, You called them tanas
as you lined them up,
in a long row,
an entire family, a treasure.
“And what was before that?”
he wanted to know, and
I told him that before elephants
he loved butterflies,
and my son’s black eyes were
deeper and shinier, imagining
the past he no longer remembered.
Today I feel sad,
and the water tastes bitter, Father,
because you are not here
with me,
I miss you so badly.
I would like someone to tell me
What I did?
For I have no one who remembers left.
And I would like so much to know.