My Father’s Spice Signature arctic wiry hair, his pride among balding friends Carried a leather briefcase washed his Lincoln with care on weekends Forty-eight years gone Yet the bouquet memory of his walk-in closet musky and male suits and sport coats tidy, shoes polished ‘til they reflected light And ties—so many ties myriad colors, wool and silk I crouched under the jackets drank in his spice During spring break in an elm-shaded park I saw my father in the Lincoln, lifting a brown-bagged bottle to his lips His thoughts his dreams drowned in the liquid hidden from me
Such a tender portrayal of a man anesthetizing his pain, and hiding behind a facade, but not hidden well enough. I too had a startled unexpected view of my father's hidden life that changed me forever. These are harsh memories that need the light of day. Emily
Thank you, Emily. I feel they need the light of day as well.
I have a new collection coming out--more narrative poetry--about raising my physically- disabled son--dealing with the medical establishment of the 1970s-80s, then bullying, etc. Truths that I feel need the light of day as well. But also, joy!
So happy you are able to create poems again. This poem definitely evoked memories of my own father's tragic history that had an impact on his ability to connect with me in a meaningful way . He suffered from depression in his later years and began drinking hard liquor each evening and passing out in his recliner. Never abusive but emotionally absent. He died of cancer at 77.
I never outgrew the fear I had of receiving Dad's criticism. One time when I was about twenty, he talked to me of visiting the Smithsonian Museum, and said I should try to see it in my lifetime. He was addressing me as an equal, and that was the first time I felt an upswelling of love for him, though I never had the courage to do as much as touch his hand. I wanted to know him, but he kept a stern facade only letting down for a time or two before he died, young at forty-six. The unfinished love. I feel it in your story/poem.
Isn't it amazing where someone else's poem can take us? Into our own histories and depth of feeling. I'm so happy when that happens for someone reading one of my poems. My dad dropped dead of a heart attack on an airplane at 64. Not as young, but still what seemed an unfinished life with opportunities missed.
This poem brings a very deep and moving picture to the heart, Didi. Moving from that neat closet memory to that quiet afternoon in the park—it shows the hidden weights our parents carried. Thank you for sharing such an honest piece.— Choti Bhai
Gosh, beautiful and sad
Yes. Thank you, Gilly.
Such a tender portrayal of a man anesthetizing his pain, and hiding behind a facade, but not hidden well enough. I too had a startled unexpected view of my father's hidden life that changed me forever. These are harsh memories that need the light of day. Emily
Thank you, Emily. I feel they need the light of day as well.
I have a new collection coming out--more narrative poetry--about raising my physically- disabled son--dealing with the medical establishment of the 1970s-80s, then bullying, etc. Truths that I feel need the light of day as well. But also, joy!
Zubin
So happy you are able to create poems again. This poem definitely evoked memories of my own father's tragic history that had an impact on his ability to connect with me in a meaningful way . He suffered from depression in his later years and began drinking hard liquor each evening and passing out in his recliner. Never abusive but emotionally absent. He died of cancer at 77.
My father, too, emotionally absent. Dropped dead of a heart attack on a Delta airline flight at 64.
I never outgrew the fear I had of receiving Dad's criticism. One time when I was about twenty, he talked to me of visiting the Smithsonian Museum, and said I should try to see it in my lifetime. He was addressing me as an equal, and that was the first time I felt an upswelling of love for him, though I never had the courage to do as much as touch his hand. I wanted to know him, but he kept a stern facade only letting down for a time or two before he died, young at forty-six. The unfinished love. I feel it in your story/poem.
Isn't it amazing where someone else's poem can take us? Into our own histories and depth of feeling. I'm so happy when that happens for someone reading one of my poems. My dad dropped dead of a heart attack on an airplane at 64. Not as young, but still what seemed an unfinished life with opportunities missed.
Heartbreaking even in it's lush "painting."
Thank you, Elaine.
This poem brings a very deep and moving picture to the heart, Didi. Moving from that neat closet memory to that quiet afternoon in the park—it shows the hidden weights our parents carried. Thank you for sharing such an honest piece.— Choti Bhai