No Man-to-Man -- Nov 13 2021

 

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.