Friday, January 15, 2016


Found here.

Disappearing Fathers

Sometime after I turned forty the fathers from my childhood
began disappearing; they had heart attacks
during business dinners or while digging their shovels
into a late April snow. Some fathers began forgetting things:
their phone numbers, which neighborhoods belonged
to them, which houses. They had a shortness of breath,
the world’s air suddenly too thin, as if it came
from some other altitude. They were gone:
the fathers I had seen dissecting cars
in garages, the fathers with suits
and briefcases, the fathers who slipped down
rivers on fishing boats and the ones
who drank television and beer. Most of my friends
still had mothers but the fathers
were endangered, then extinct.
I was surprised, though I had always known
the ladies lasted longer; the fathers fooled me
with their toughness; I had been duped
by their jogging and heavy lifting, misled
by their strength when they slapped
me on the back or shook my hand. I kept imagining
I would see them again: out walking their dogs
on the roads near my childhood house,
lighting cigars on their porches, waving to me
from their canoes while I waited on shore.


Tabor said...

Really beautiful and touching imagery.

Cerulean Bill said...

I thought that the concluding line was a little weak, but the rest was quite good.

Wendster said...

I really enjoyed that! At first I was looking for the "read more" after the ending line, but after I considered it, I thought the ending line was perfect. Kind of like how the vikings bodies are sent off in their boats, burning on their funeral pyre (sp?) as they go to their rest, the people on the shore watching as they go. Nice. Really really nice. Glad I stopped in.

Cerulean Bill said...

I'm glad too, Wendster. Incidentally, did you note that I included a link to the author's site?