during the days before mom cleaned his closet out,
I'd pull my dad's blue and gold robe from the hanger,
put it around my little adolescent torso,
snuggle into his smell, find all the pictures of our family
and the cards people sent when he died and play
Neil Young's Philadelphia while crying my green eyes blue.
Now, when I feel like I'm the only one who remembers him,
I listen to the same song and bring him back to earth for
four minutes and sixteen seconds. He had stubby, wide fingers
and navy blue brought out his features. He wore Calvin Klein
Obsession cologne and smoked a pipe. He loved C.G. Jung
and told hilarious, dirty jokes. I was only thirteen,
but I'm not crazy. My dad lived once.
2 comments:
Thanks for letting me know a little more about your dad. This is beautiful...
i hesitate to say this, but your post brought it bubbling up, and I'm trying not to police that spring as much as I used to:
He lived once, yes.
And from the stories you tell me, he still lives in some way. He lives in those stories, and he also lives in you. But that's not all - it's just all I can point to right now.
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