My Father’s Eyes

Why was it that I came into your house,
that I chose to live there within your life.
A child of such questions, dreams, and visions,
longings, expressions, and uncertainties?

What was the rush I made back into,
a time and a place in a cold world war.
Those ever present and changing times,
the fifties, the bombers coursing the sky?

I knew there were tools you held in your hands,
for of some fascination I’m sure I did find .
That growing you taught me the value of iron,
and hard work had reasons, it’s just what we did.

Older than the rest of all my friend’s fathers.
We didn’t run much, mostly watched the ball games.
But I still feel the warmth as your hands held my feet,
that felt frozen that eve picking mussels at the shore.

Frustration began as I grew and I learned,
that all of the answers just weren’t yours to give,
and I’d need to begin to make my own way,
building a living within this wide world.

You seemed disappointed when I left for school,
shaking my hand and wishing me well.
As if you knew something I’d soon discover,
that where I was going I wouldn’t fit in.

Later this dropout was earning a living,
and with pride on your face you’d always stop in.
Sharing your stories of beer trucks and women,
my own tools in hand then, I saw what you knew.

Life’s about choices not where you are going,
you did the best that you knew and left me to learn.
In my own separate way, yet watching me always,
caring in quiet and sharing your bread.

I remember you cried when you heard about Noreen.
I remember you told me to pay all my debts.
I remember you died all alone that Easter,
while my car needed water on the way to your room.

So what have I learned to share with my children –
We should never let go till tomorrow,
the things that need fixing right now,
whether faucets that leak, or hearts on the brink.

That love is not always words that are spoken,
but something that always is felt none the less.
And now when they look in my steely blue eyes
they’ll see your reflection of life living there …

Note about the photo – Ironically “The Old Man and the Sea” needle point that my mother did, turned out to look remarkably like my father, pipe and all.