My father, who used to be fireman, perished in a fire he accidently started on Tuesday night. My father--who I've met exactly twice--with the eyes that match mine perfectly is dead. I barely knew him.
Here's a poem I wrote about him years ago.
John
I.
I don’t remember
how old I was when
I learned your name.
I’ve tried other words to describe you.
They fit my mouth like jagged stones.
Father
Papa
Daddy
Each rings oddly in my mind like
French or
Japanese.
II.
The day we met I
was nineteen.
I tried to call you Dad.
I hugged your bony shoulders
awkwardly.
You seemed smaller in person.
My body revolted with
rage unacknowledged.
We did not learn much
about each other in those few days.
You’d been silent too long
and I didn’t know how to listen.
III.
John.
Your name still sticks in my throat
I speak around it.
Your life continues without
me---your oldest child---as it always did.
But you are a stone in the river
of my life---the water around you is
rough and interrupted.
I cannot bring calm to that place.
IV.
At 23
I decided to get a tattoo.
I chose a Zia, the
Navajo sun sign.
I put it on my left arm---near the shoulder.
Not until later did I realize
In the one photo I have of you
You have the same tattoo on the right.
V.
You and I have
always lived separate lives.
But I see you each time I look
at my eyes
or glance at the odd shape
of my nose.
The man I’ve chosen to father
my children
I know in my soul will not leave.
John
I am your daughter.
But my heart remains
without
a father.
