When I think of my father, I am younger.

Always the child, with so much to learn,

and he an eager teacher.

Always the child, to be protected,

and he a guardian at all costs.

Even in his failing days, those roles could not reverse.

I don't think that he ever accepted the notion that he must be cared for,

rather than taking care of others.

For my part, some corner of my heart always felt that he was there

as last resort.

Though an adult, responsible unto myself,

I remained not just his son, but his child.



He was a child of the former century, and kept pace with its rapid changes.

He was fascinated with the new, but never doubted the inheritance of the past.

Therefore he loved both Jazz and Bach.

He played them on a new CD, or scratchy 78s,

but always there was music in his house.

Sometimes he himself played,

not well, but with delight,

on the piano, or the recorder,

or just the rum-ta-ta-ta ta-tum of his own voice.

And music was in that voice when he read to me at bedtime,

or expounded on his many passions and opinions.

He played himself out, a melody

that overpowered the stray false note.



If there were false notes in his life,

they came not out of ill intent,

but from desire for more of life than was his portion.

And this desire could not be separated

from the love of life that he exuded.



This love shone forth,

and made him charming,

even as he was contrary and confounding.

A devil's advocate, but not a devil,

he elicited the best from those around him,

more than they meant to give.

Yet he did so with such good humor,

that few could help but love him,

a man that made his fellows better.



With such tools he outperformed his circumstances.

Doting especially upon his children,

he sent us to the finest schools

and satisfied our desires

at the expense of his.

Our means were modest,

but I never felt impoverished.



We did not take luxurious vacations,

but the recreations I remember were so much better.

Time and again, on long-lost summer Sundays,

we packed up our little car,

typically an economy import,

(So like him to be ahead of the curve, and contrary,

buying foreign in Detroit, long before it was the fashion.)

and we headed to some local park,

maybe in that countryside, then still wild,

where he later settled, after it was subdivided.

Or, just as often, we crossed the River, into Canada,

Point Pelee being a favorite of his,

and there we had a simple picnic, a swim,

and always a nature walk

among the fields and trees.



He knew the names

of birds and flowers,

snakes and spiders,

stars and clouds,

streams and islands...

And in teaching them to me

his native love for these pure things

fed an innate appetite;

a flame of passion for the natural world

that serves us all well to ignite.

It cost him nothing

but continues to endow me

beyond worth.



In this,

and in his open heart

I learned that joy

and love of life

are free

to those who know their ways

and are not otherwise obtained.



Such was the sacred knowledge he imparted.



When I think of my father

I am young.

A child beside him

in some wood

where he perceives much more than I.

A subtle rustle in the bushes,

a bit of unfamiliar bird song,

and now

he bids me wait

steps off the trail to investigate

goes on ahead

alone

leaving me wondering and bereft

but never leaving me unloved.



Always he took the alternate route

now he has arrived

at the final destination.

There he will find, I trust,

no God that acts as traffic cop

but one that laughs at a bad pun

and hums a bit of Bach

ra ta-ta tum

forever

until all is one.

Farewell Daddy,

you are always loved.