When I empty my pockets of childhood memories
and lay them out on the tabletop,
I return again to my father, and his constant reminders--
Stand up straight. Be proud,
And I held his advice in the palm of my hand:
pondering my ability to throw it away into that river
of lost instruction, forgotten pleas, cumbersome nagging.

But instead, I collected his stone words,
and later used them to build
a life like his:
Of dignity, pride, purpose, and strength.

I return, each day, to the wooded path
where we'd walk among birch trees lining the road
like monuments of our time together.
And I'd reply, trying to be beautiful,
I am standing up straight,
And he'd say,
*I’m proud of you.