He died when I was three years old...before
lanky teens gave birth to rock and roll and man had only dreamed of exploring
the planets.
There were no Father's Day
celebrations.
I have thought of him often through the
years...on days that I would have liked to share with him;
graduation...proms...my wedding day...the birth of his grandchildren...and
especially Father's Day.
I've thought about how different my world
is from the one he knew.
Men had careers as coopers and boiler stokers;
he wouldn't understand the world of electronic gadgetry I live
in.
He worked with his hands, shaping barrels
-- like his father before him -- that held nails or flour or someone's possesions
packed for moving.
His hands fashioned bookshelves and chicken
coops and mended broken toys. And they comforted.
My father had simple tastes. He liked home-baked
bread and wool socks. He sat at the kitchen table sharing coffee and conversation
with my mother; he read aloud from the newspaper while she washed
dishes.
He had an abundance of love to give. He loved
his children.
He brought jelly beans home in his lunch
box, spoiling our appetites for dinner.
He always had time to play catch with the
boys.
I never knew my father.
I learned of him through stories my mother
told and from the older children who remember him.
I never knew my father or had the chance
to shop for gifts, or say I love you.
Tell yours you love
him,
Some of us never
could.
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