(May 10, 1966)
I’m always writing my father’s obituary.
As a kid, late at night, I’d wonder why
I missed him so much. I’d rise, hearing
the cold splintering, breaking. “Love’s
austere and lonely offices,” Robert
Hayden wrote. Though I remember it
“Those…”. The“Love” was implied. I
wake up with chest pains missing the
steadiness my father’s life provided. What
to say about a guy like him? Only I could
tell you. I’m the only one to do it, To
describe the ugly capris he wore against
(better) judgement, kind words he spoke to
a listening ear, peace he effortlessly exuded,
Is it all revisionist history? An idealized
past? It can’t be, he’s not dead yet. There
hasn’t been a funeral, but there’s been
grieving. God, I miss him. He lives down
in Pungo. Right down the street.