In memory of a father

For my dear friend LS and in honour of the memory of his father

You told me that long ago
your dad used to take you
down to the dock
to draw ships -
and I picture you, in awe,
as your dad would sketch them
mast to mast, leaning, tipped
in the wind.

You used to have your adolescent moments,
you admitted, when your dad
would pull you sternly from parties
and chastise you
because he cared
more than he dared
to openly say.

But what I remember most
is how you said,
not too long ago,
that one day you would be your dad -
and that you hoped for it,
as you realized who he was
and how proud he was of you.

At your graduation your dad
sat poised with his video camera,
ready to capture your walk
across the stage -
and across the gap from boy
to man.
He was so excited that
he couldn't lean back in his seat,
afraid he'd miss your moment;
As each graduate crossed the stage,
he nudged me,
asking, again,
"Is it him?"

The years pulled you together
despite the distance
between Calgary and Thunder Bay -
and every time you spoke of him
I could hear the love, the pride
and the infinite hope
you held for your dad,
and there was nothing, it seemed,
that you did not tell him about.

And then just recently you told me
that your dad had passed
and you being you,
the news was practical and factual,
and your voice never wavered,
never broke,
even though I know your heart must have,
a hundred times over.

I wish I knew him better, your dad.
He was always so good to me,
so warm, so friendly.
For all the love I bear you,
I could not make it better,
I never could,
and I don't think
you expect me to.

And although I know these words
are not much,
I send them into being
to fill a tiny corner here
in the memory
of your dad,
hoping that you feel my love
and know that it is because
I know how much he meant to you.

Perhaps one day
you can take your son
and draw ships
at the dock
together.

Last time

Last time I vowed that
the next time I see you,
it won't be a big deal,
it'll be OK and I'll smile -

But I forgot that seeing you
is more than just looking;
it's hearing a voice I grew fond of,
it's watching you move and smile,
it's having to say something
that doesn't crack down the middle
when I offer it up and feel it leave my lips -

And it's feeling the ache
of wanting to touch you but knowing
I can't go there
it's the fullness of remembering
everything that went before
and trying to make up for the gap
in small, timid steps;
it's wanting warmth but pining heat
and fearing being burnt;
it's loneliness with the antidote
standing in front of me
but locked, simultaneously, away.

If you were to ask me
how I am -
so many answers come to mind,
too many, too late, too lost.
I can, and probably will,
say "I'm good"
but that explains nothing,
gives me nothing,
gives you nothing,
and shrivels like some desiccated flower,
then trampled, then forgotten.

I want all the time
to sit and be where we were before
knowing that now is not the time
to be wishing such things.

I can wish myself luck,
and you happiness,
and both of us grace,
but I can't wish away
that past fact of us together
feeling so tenderly happy
and now so sharply hurt.

Just slightly

I tell myself
Slightly
I might miss you slightly
and it's only a little bit
awkward
when we met by chance
and I couldn't tell
if the sting in my eyes
was because I didn't know
where to look
or because I missed you

But that,
I tell myself,
doesn't matter.

I shouldn't much care
even slightly
if missing is just something
I do,
even if you don't.

And I shouldn't
in the least
give a second thought
about times gone
because I claimed
to turn a proverbial page
and erase you away.

Beset, however,
by tides of fierce pain
rooted in happiness past,
I begin to think
that 'should' matters very little
and 'could' matters more.

I don't think
it was the shoulds of it all
that drove us
to where we are;
perhaps, though,
the fear of coulds
had slightly something
to do with it.

No, I should not miss you.
Yet I do.
We could have been,
maybe.
Just perhaps.
Just slightly.