Near frost early morning,
Packed bags squeezed
Into the old Oldsmobile,
Ready to leave for college.

I kissed my mother,
Said good-bye,
Held her tight.

My father passed us,
Moving over stones,
Carrying two buckets
On his way to cows
And milking.

I couldn't see his face...
Had no idea.

"Art, are you going to say good-bye?"
I heard my mother say.

The words arrested him.
All movement stopped.
Shoulders hunched,
He slowly set the buckets down.

Turning was agony,
I saw,
As though his efforts
Somehow jarred the world,
Disrupted natural order, and
Acknowledged chaos come at last.

Forty years later,
I still see my father's face
Coursing silent tears,
And watch his shoulders shake.

Then we embraced,
We two,
And both were torn
With my leaving.

I knew with certainty
My father's love
That morning,
Leaving home.