Oh God, spare me Your
Lightning
Nuts!
Bolting
Out of the blew
Sky...
As I clumsily at
Temp to
Equate unimaginably
Complex emotions
Into knock-
Knock jokes.
But here it goes.
"Who'se there?"
YOU WALRUS.
Huh?
"You walrus hurt...
The one you love."
I can't hurt my Dad
Anymore.
He's in Heaven, a
Place as real as
The soul.
I wouldn't want to
Hurt my Dad.
I MISS my Dad.
I'm crying, now.
Right now, electronic
Tears drip near my
Electric pencil
On top of the
Virtual pad
Upon which I write these
Abstractions.
(The emotions are real, though)
When my Pop was
Alive,
Toward the end of his
78 years,
I was busy with the
Family of my own.
He and Mom were
300 miles Ioway.
I took his existence
For granted,
Always, always
Believing I'd always
Always get another chance
To see him.
I wasn't hurting him
On purpose.
I was just his oldest
Son involved in his
Oldest son's life
Wife
Kids
House
You know,
Life.
Tomorrow, Pops, I
Promised
No one at all.
I'll see my Dad
Tomorrow.
There are only so many
Tomorrows.
So after Mom passed
In the Fall of 2008,
I get a call from my
Sister
That Dad's in the
Hospital with
Pneumonia.
300 miles...
ON ICE!
Not an Ice Show, but
An icy nerve-jangly
Mess.
I didn't miss my Pops
Then, on the road, when
All I could do is pray
He wouldn't die before
I got off the **** road.
I felt the opposite of
Missing someone.
I wanted to be with
Him, near him,
Holding his hand,
Looking into the eyes
Of the man with whom
I went to a picnic with
(And left with Mom,
If you get my snow)
Drift.
He's in the hospital,
And we can only see
Him for a minute.
He struggled to do the
Very thing you're
Con or Un
...ly doing right now.
Each breath, each
Ebb and flow, the
Tide of respiration
Was a struggle.
"Pop?" I said through
The salty curtain of
Rain covering the two
Windows through which
I viewed the skewed world.
"Dad? It's me. Ted."
And stricken in that stupid
Narrow inhospitable
Bed, he raised up,
His rheumy old-man
Eyes now longer in
Respiratory foggy distress,
Clear, clearly:
"Teddy."
How many words
Does a Father speak
To his son, from
Before birth, talking to that
Comical roundness in
Mama's belly?
What whisperings had
My Dad placed into
My ear, beard-stubble
Making me giggle as
My chubby little hands
Hung onto him for life
Dear?
In that moment of clarity
Between tidal volumes of
Unbearably bearable
Pain,
I loved my Pops more
Than ever before.
And though I was with him,
I missed the old
Younger Dad.
I regretted nearly all of
My college years, when
Alcohol and girls
And girls and alcohol
And my friends
Took selfish priority
Over the man who'd
Once whispered into
His baby boy's ears.
The words of wisdom
He tried to bestow
Upon me, in those
Desperately rebellious years
I didn't take the time
To count.
I miss you, Dad.
I'm doing the best
I can with my own
Two boys, the same number
You and Mom had
(Minus the 6 girls)
My oldest, Michael,
Will soon be an
Elementary Teacher
And eventually, Principal.
If you can see him,
From Heaven's Perch,
Then of course, you know
This already.
I'm not sure if you can.
And I'm not sure if it matters
If you can't.
Heaven must be
Amazing enough all by itself.
I miss you, Dad.
I didn't appreciate all you did
For me while you were
Alive.
And now that you're gone
From this earth, I think
I can hear some of the
Murmuring
Whispers and
Hums you put into
My little bald head
As you held me
In your arms.
You taught me as
Best you could.
I put those same
Murmuring Whispers
Into Michael's ear
Nearly 22 years ago,
Into Adam's
Nearly 15 years ago.
And, hopefully,
The same thing,
Repeated, in an
Unknown span of years
With my Grandchildren.
I miss you, Pops.
And I love you.
Please tell Mom
That her poem is
Next.