I sometimes search the Internet
Looking for my father’s Rickenbacker guitar
Though I rarely heard him play it
That sliding sound, with my bedroom door ajar
More often I can see it still
In our parlor in its dedicated space
It must be strum while sitting down
Its elevated strings silent in its case
I couldn’t comprehend it then
Though looking back now it seems a little cruel
That on the day my father died
Like any other day, I went on to school
That day began as usual
My father and I-an ordinary ride
Until he swerved right off the road
While I lurched to his side and watched while he died
His heart had stopped, and even now
I try to remember a look or a trace
Wondering why his lips turned blue
And a wave of pale, deep pain was on his face
His death was never talked about
I was clueless about what to do or say
No one ever spoke to me then
When I was driven to school on that same day
I can’t remember anything
About the details of our lives before then
I catch up watching family films
He left when I was only 9, almost 10
I know we have gifts that differ
I believe according to my Father’s Grace
That the gift my father left me
I sometimes see it written on my own face
And in strains of music heard
That sliding, soulful sound in Hawaiian songs
Or when Neil’s Harvest album plays
I stop-and like a prayer I sing along
I looked for his guitar again
It’s now worth so many thousand dollars more
All I have is faded memories
Haunting strains of music coming through my door
She might have needed 50 bucks
When I asked it was the story she would tell
About my dad’s Rickenbacker
At 10, when I begged my mother not to sell
This is inspired by Bill's story, a real life experience when his father died while driving him to school. He can't remember his life before this. When I met him & asked the usual questions, he quickly showed me family films on an old projector in his attic to show the life he had but can't recall any other way. I hope this poem helps him grieve his father's death and his terrible loss at 9 years old.