Father’s Day
Old age and memories linger in the fog. Words of the past haunt, newborn’s cries Etched in glassy recesses rush forward to Burst forth from wrinkled lips. Rain and an October flood back. Her beauty reached out to caress. here is a blanket and soup; it will warm the very cockles. is that what she said? Another October the child awakens; draw the blinds Luce; the sun will hurt her eyes. Wisdom for the aged, Teach the children about life. Year of the son, of pride and joy. catch the ball, son. see, this is how it’s done. run with it and breezes whistle in your ears. Waning years, with child-like tears of regret Cover old wounds, voices no longer strong; Don’t you remember, you told me all about it Again at dinner last night.
Author’s Note
My dad, near the end of his life, loved to tell stories about my brother and me as children. His voice would become joyful as he told his stories repeatedly. To him, those times were special and happy. He loved taking us on walks, loved going to the zoo and botanical gardens, loved teaching us to catch a ball, swim, ride a bike.
(I never learned to ride a bike, if you can believe that. I’m not sure why. My balance has always been fine. I can do other activities requiring balance, but biking eludes me. Gravity keeps pulling me down.)
His stories also included how he met my mother and their courtship, how he introduced her to his 5-year-old daughter (my sister), who needed a mother figure in her life, and how my mother’s face softened as she accepted his proposal, knowing she would be a mother, instantly. I didn’t come along for another 13 years and my brother another 17.
He was not a perfect person, but despite his faults and failings, he loved us all. He kept telling us how much through his stories, the memories his dementia could not take away.
If you haven't read them, here are two stories I wrote about my dad: I, Brutus and The Flying Cockroach.
I, Brutus
The Flying Cockroach
Upcoming…
June’s writing prompt:
One Hundred-Word Wonders, 19 June 2024
For those who want to get a head start, themes are Gluttony and Temperance, and the prompt word is FIREFLY. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using ONE theme only. Use the prompt word or its plural, as many times as you wish. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 19th!
Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.
That's a kind and generous package you published today - I think all of with some capacity for words struggle with how to strike a balance between 'what one should say' and 'what we feel' - because I'm convinced we feel that we fail as parents in ways that are hard to admit, and if we forget our middle-aged kids are happy to remind us where we failed them and won't settle for words - empty ones or full ones - or apologies, or gifts, or doing a better job as a grandparent ... there is no 'enough' to fix an embedded hurting, as we all know about whatever we saw as the 'falling short' of our parents. ANYWAY, I wanted to write and say THANK YOU for your publication, and, to say I found a 'clutch of words' in your piece - I love them and will 'borrow them' for use in a different context than how you used them, but the spoke to me all on their own: Gravity keeps pulling me down. Cheers, Mark P.S. - you are never too old to learn how to do anything - especially riding a bike.
Thank you, Mark. I’m so glad that you found inspiration from my words. It still puzzles me that I ice skate but can’t ride a bike. One of these days, eh?