No Man-to-Man
Nov 13 2021
Their indifference is humbling.
But they have their own lives,
are preoccupied with getting on with it.
And the young
whose eyes are fixed ahead, not back
imagine
that whatever happens
it must surely be a first
in the history of the world.
That the past began
the moment of their birth.
So how old was I
when I learned what my father did
when he went to work each day?
And even then
would I have cared?
Because kids
are the ultimate solipsists,
incandescent suns
whose gravitational fields
attract their own circle of planets,
enough self-referential light
to block out the stars.
Because even famous fathers
do not impress their kids;
there are no celebrities
putting you to bed
or laying down the law.
But still, fame will dog them.
Because the child of a famous father
can't help but bear the burden
of his failure and accomplishment
the shadow and the glare.
Mine, of course, was not.
But I still regret
taking him for granted.
His hard work
the roof over our heads,
his love for my mother
and zest for his friends.
His basic goodness
fame notwithstanding.
So how old was I
when I would come to know the man
understand him whole?
A man
who for all the time I lived at home
was not nearly as old
as I am now.
Or have I never known him this way
and now it's too late to start?
To know the person, not the role.
To express my gratitude
for the industrious man
and the good example he set,
a steadfast presence
you knew had your back
should you stumble and fall.
For the determined man
of surprising vision
whose ambition was quiet but fierce.
And for the family man,
who did not easily proclaim his love
but had no trouble showing it.
Yet it's uncanny
how I've grown to resemble him.
So when I look in the mirror
I can't help but remember;
not just the larger-than-life
all dads are
when their children are little,
but the gentle man
who looked so small
in the vastness of his deathbed.
Can't help but wonder
how much of him
I must contain.
Wonder, because I cannot answer;
no man-to-man
no heartfelt talk
when someone's gone for good.
I think this theme will resonate widely. That it's hard to know our parents as people in their own right, with past lives as well as complex inner ones. When we're young they are simply instrumental presences, naturally there to take care of us. And when we're older, there is all the baggage that accumulates. And, of course, parents of past generations did not communicate nearly as openly as modern parents are inclined to do. So even though as grown-ups our relationship should become more equal, they remain as opaque and unknowable as ever.
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