We know the world is a crazy place
and that is it easy to give up, throw in the towel.
The idealism of youth gives way to the cynicism of middle age
when we realize that despite our best efforts, change is very difficult.
To be a parent and, in particular, to be a father....why bother?

Some say fatherhood is driven by ego,
the child providing the ultimate selfish representation of oneself.
Others say driven by fear,
the fear of mortality and the unconscious and genetic need
to propagate and maintain our lineage, our species, our world.
While both can be true, I believe the best manifestation of fatherhood
is  driven by tikkun olam, a Jewish concept that we all have an obligation
to better the world, to move it to a better state than currently exists.

We do what we can when on this earth to love our family, friends,
and be as righteous as this world will allow.
Our genetic legacy is not nearly as important as
our obligation to pass on what we know, have learned, have experienced,
and enable our children
to carry the mission to an always higher level.
No matter what our belief in the afterlife, and what the future may hold
we are here now in THIS life,
and as long as we move the ball further and further
in the right direction, there can be hope.

Truly being a father, a good father, enables hope.  Maybe that is enough.

He will return to the place where never was,
in a day without nights, he will return.

On the last day of winter,
with the white ceiling illuminating his eyes.
He will return.

In the morning when he is absent,
with the same look when they met.

When not one hear they,
When no one feels,
When no one looks at them.


With his hands of leaves and tree,
With a forgotten name,
He will come back.

In the Olam-Haba that he just knew,
on his own Olam-Haba,
They will return.

I think we’re all just honest missing pieces

shoved under the couch or chewed past recognition

we fill these flaw with tact and with sarcasm

with extremes and shouts and prayers

and kisses and each other

He will return to the place where never was,
in a day without nights, he will return.

On the last day of winter,
with the white ceiling illuminating his eyes.
He will return.

In the morning when he is absent,
with the same look when they met.

When not one hear they,
When no one feels,
When no one looks at them.


With his hands of leaves and tree,
With a forgotten name,
He will come back.

In the Olam-Haba that he just knew,
on his own Olam-Haba,
They will return.