His hard rock maple chair
sat out there in the shed
casually shrouded in the dusty spread
removed from his bed.
The remaining carefully placed tools
lay in rows, what had not been sold.
The old railroad lantern had disappeared.
I found the boat paddle, (the fishing pole was sold)
his HD 69 Texas truck license plate,
one small table vice, hand made,
one small hammer, hand made,
one small carved lamp, hand made
one set of nippers and pinchers, store bought.
I sat on the work bench with my feet dangling in the air
staring at the Texas sun setting behind a wind stunted oak tree.
Then ever so windy-wispy, I could feel him there beside me.
It was true: every square inch of me knew it.
My body hair stood on end.
Tears filled my eyes. I began to grin.
Out loud I began to talk to him.
"It is hard to look in my lap at my gathered treasures, so few.
I missed your death,
missed the funeral and the wake,
missed the 'What am I going to do with all this stuff
that was your dad’s?' garage/shed sale."
"I missed the entire end of you, Father of my beginnings.
To this very day my heart will not bury you.
I never got that final look,
I never got to close the book
on your life as it departed mine."
And so now, ever since that Tabasco Texas, hot June day,
windy-wispy he blows in when I least expect him.
No big deal.
He just sits or hangs out for a while.
"Hi, Daddy, wanna go for a ride in my new car?
Wanna walk out to the pond? How do you like Virginia?
Help me put this old paddle of yours into my sailboat.
Daddy, you just gotta sail with me on the Chesapeake Bay.
It beats rowing a boat on Mart Waterworks Lake hands down."
I cannot drink black railroad coffee,
eat cheese and crackers at midnight,
see a John Wayne Western,
shoot my '38,
read a Zane Grey book,
hear a train blow at a crossing,
pass the fisherman's isle at Sears,
walk into a hardware store,
buy or fix a car,
or think of a thousand other things
that were my dad without seeing his face
or feel his tough skinned, strong hand
holding mine.
My eyes still mist over.
I know when I come to the end of my own days,
he will be standing there beside that old tree
with the sun on his back,
stretch out a hand and say,
"Come on, Baby. Welcome to the other side."
Doing the Texas Swing to fiddles and guitars,
Daddy and Mama danced the Two Step every night.
Rounding the table,
picking up the supper dishes,
they sashayed through the maple chairs.
Mama's big belly filled to the brim with my new brother
didn't seem to slow down Mother
from keeping up with Daddy's fancy swing-beat feet.
Whirling through the living room,
back into the dining room,
speedily through the kitchen
they appeared before me once again.
Soap suds became flying ballroom bubbles.
Dishtowels flew like gauzimer gowns caught up in the wind.
Bounding passed my high chair on their way to the back porch,
beating out the rhythm, shaking my viewing perch.
We were one with the drums of music and war.
Daddy leaned low and whispered in Mama's ear:
"We are running out of men to send.
If this war doesn't end soon,
we will call for men age 44,
and I will go on the next train, my love.
I'll be on the very next train."
Mama's hand smoothed across my unborn brother.
I saw her eyes mist over.
Today,I shut my eyes;
see them dancing;
hear them laughing;
drowning out short rations;
pulling shades for back outs;
putting out the lights;
hearing planes with pay loads;
thunder and rumble their way
to Europe and Japan:
flying over our house
again and again.
The Philco Radio played on, long into the night,
while America danced in her kitchens to remain sane.