Pater Familias

Because my Mother’s Day post was a wee bit glum, I decided not to wait for Father’s Day to post the poem I wrote about my father. I’ll let Mr. Right bask in the glory that is his on Father’s Day. That is as it should be.

I’ve just returned home from spending a few days in Oklahoma where I grew up. I stayed with my sister and attended my niece’s high school graduation which I’ll maybe write about later, but right now my brain is in low gear and can’t seem to get up any speed.

The last day at my sister’s house was spent sitting on the back porch drinking, talking, laughing and occasionally letting a tear or two escape our eyes. We brushed off a lot of old memories and turned them over and gave them a look see to see if they were worth keeping. I reminded her of childhood things she’d long forgotten and she shared some of her memories of our grandparents that she’d made in her adult life of which I’d not been a part. Sitting on her back porch that day, my sister and I wove together a rag tag Quilt of Remembrance.

Being children who grew up quite often feeling as though we’d lost the Parent Lottery, the subject of our mother and father made it into the conversation with some frequency. We discussed how we lived a large part of our lives learning how to avoid our father’s fury, which basically, boiled down to avoiding him altogether.

In previous posts, I’ve introduced you a bit to my mother. Allow me to introduce my father.

The Cowboy

In the distance he stands, thumb hooked inside the pocket of faded Levis, hip cocked.

His head is tilted under an expensive but weathered Stetson, and his neck, native red,
shows above the collar of his long sleeved western shirt.

His eyes are squinted against the scorching sun and he seems
oblivious to the heat. The rope is held in his free hand, hanging by his side naturally, as if it were an extension of his own arm.

He possesses the soul of a cowboy, the heart of a horse,
and the patience of a rattlesnake.

Weathered and worn, occasionally beaten,
but always fighting, and never admitting defeat.

He is proud to a fault, quick to judge, and sparing with compliments.

In his eyes there is admiration for the horses he loves and controls.
For his children, his eyes are flashes of lightening threatening to strike;
his boots like thunder on the sidewalk, warning of the coming storm.

I know this man, this man’s man, a charmer of horses and women.
A part of him lives in me.

I can sometimes hear the thunder roll and the hair raises on my neck waiting for the lightening to strike.

I have felt the force of his powerful hands and have lived through storms that left me wounded and afraid.

I know him.
I love him.
He is my father.

This was written in June of 1999 when I was thirty years old. At the time, my father was serving the tenth year of a fourteen year prison sentence. I had three children, none of whom he'd ever met and I was in therapy, attempting to save myself and a failing marriage. I was also still in regular contact with my father via collect calls from the prison and handwritten letters back and forth.

Today, ten years later, my children have still not met their grandfather. My marriage was not saved, but I was, and I no longer have contact with my father.

What I feel for him is something akin to the feelings one might have when seeing an animal alongside the road that has been hit by a car but is still alive and suffering. It's not love, but rather a desire to not see another living thing exist in misery. Or, maybe it is love but my mind can't acknowledge it because my body and my heart are still too scarred from his hands and words to comprehend that I might still be capable of such feelings for him.

I'm not sure what it is, but I am sure of this: I never knew my father and I never will. The loss has been overwhelmingly great at times and I have sorrowfully mourned what never was. I also know that it will never be and I have come to accept that. Life is good and full and I have filled it with family that is partially DNA and partially just Love. The father sized hole in me no longer exists. The scars he left, I carefully tend and treat with the gentleness they deserve.