It's the third anniversary of my
father's death. I sometimes dream, like one
too long neglected by a familiar
correspondent, that he'll write, or even come
home soon from his trip. As though nothing much
had passed, take his place in the big rocker,
work his Sunday crossword, do the Reader's
Digest, lay his glasses down to lift a
grandchild to his lap, talk with me about
Pete Rose or Dick Nixon like he did the night
before he died. He'd be older.
Three years ago I said goodbye to him,
finally though not knowing so. "Hope you
feel better," my godspeed. Then he left. He
took with him a part of my mother's
life and a piece of mine. Where the tissue
tore is still quick.
I know that my own journey's the only
way I might regain him. But my
particular parting will be hard too
for I'll have to slip out leaving others
anchored home. Leave them wounded I suppose
and wishing their own father had stayed
to talk longer.