My father was 22 when I was born. It seems we were both too young to establish a good relationship. For a variety of causes and conditions, we never did.
Today’s poem is the latest attempt to paying my respects:
Yesterday was the anniversary of my father’s death; he died thirteen years ago. I’ve thought of him often this month but not yesterday. What about yesterday don’t I know?
My father was the last of eleven children; called Jack though his name was John. My father claimed he had a chip on his shoulder; seemed proud that he kept it on.
A boxer, a carpenter, a joker to the end, always with a twinkle in his eye. Absent from my life most of my life, but at least we said goodbye … at least we said goodbye.
Happy Father’s Day Dad. And Happy Father’s Day to all fathers: past, present and future.