Father's Day, 2014

When I was just a baby, it was often

My own sweet Daddy,
Herbert S. Pendergraft, Jr.

he who walked with me upon his
hairy chest, singing lullabies
into my ear one decibel above a whisper
so my mother and big sister wouldn't wake.
And as we grew we walked beside him in the
snow, dragging sled and giggles all the way,
and when the snow had melted and the river rose,
we fished along the bank. flew kites and mowed
the grass, and made spaghetti. I saw, through him,
that learning new skills is a joy and honing old ones
is a must. The differences in woods and subtleties
in photographs. Function winning over fussiness,
the need to keep ties to the past. Bear hugs. Singing
and commitment, faith. He doesn't always understand
or realize the time that's flown by since he walked me
down the aisle or held a grandchild, saw the grandkids
marry and begin new families of their own. He
gets confused, but not about the things that really matter:
he loves his wife and daughters. He still dreams in French.
And when he hears a song he danced to long ago,
he still remembers all the words.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014