For Pa

I never realized how much I’d miss my dad

until the message careened into the phone—

cryptic, like a code from his war,

the one he capitalized and we

always knew what he meant.

It’s hard to read between the lines on the cell phone—

a vowel-free zone of confusion

that drops worry and panic in its passing.

Only the word “stroke” held its ground,

that when applied to a ninety-six year

old man, I was strangely comforted

by his foresight in planning his funeral.

Maybe he knew what we didn’t want to know,

that not even he, bailed together by farmer’s

strength to wear the years as lightly

as he wore me on shoulders

would have to return to the ground.

I pray he takes death like he took

all the other problems he met—

as one more puzzle to solve,

one more chance to flex his imagination,

inventing some useful contraption

the Reaper hadn’t conceived

and offer it as a final gift

for us to wonder at.

Feb. 15, 2013

Feb. 15, 2013

I heard yesterday that my 96 year-old father suffered a mild stroke and heart attack. As for as I can remember, this is the first time he has been taken to the emergency room for anything. This poem was written this morning.