On this throwback Thursday, I am dusting off a poem I wrote upon the death of my step-father, who raised me from the age of 5, after my natural father died. He and I were very different persons, which caused some conflict; but, in the end, I benefited greatly from the differences. He taught me to play baseball, as he was a former professional ball player. He forced me to work outside, and taught me that it was okay to get my hands dirty. He was stern, and structured, both traits which moderated my emotional nature. He was my father, and I was lucky to have him in my life.
He stood at the grave.
The soldiers stood at attention,
as the mourners bore sad witness
to his father’s passing.
demanding whether his homework was done,
and a sterner hand when he gave the wrong answer.
He remembered the smell of dirt on the baseball field
where he learned to play ball,
when he wanted to be inside.
He still could taste the CocaCola at the All Star game,
when he walked everyone,
but his father left him in the game.
Death is a journey,
the Priest said,
in a calm voice,
as if he really knew
what was on the other side of Midnight.
What are we thinking
as we pass through the rituals of death?
What does God think
of our blindness?
Why can’t we see Him
in another’s death?
We wonder what our funeral
will be like.
Will everyone be sad?
He watched the coffin lower into the ground,
and thought that none of us will lie in State.
None of us will leave a legacy like his.
None of us will pass this way again. 
Comments