Fathers' Day, protest songs, and my dad...

I've been thinking about my dad a lot lately. Mourning him is an ongoing thing; it's not even that it comes in waves, it's more that the stuff I know he'd like, or the issues I know he'd be wildly angry about, that trigger a short bout of melancholy. I know for a fact he would have wanted to be a part of the protests; he raised me to give a damn about things like this, and I feel like I can't quite measure up to the expectations, to the ongoing task at hand, in a lot of ways. I know, I do what I can-- but still, my voice is not loud enough to be heard, most of the time, anyhow. But I'll keep hollering in my own way.

That said, I hear some folk songs, protest songs, and I hear him singing, too. My dad played every string instrument you can imagine, and he'd met and seen a good many amazing musicians in his time. I hear Dylan or Baez, or Peter, Paul, and Mary, and I'm catapulted back to my childhood, learning about what matters, what is worth getting righteously pissed about, at his knee, through music. 

In many ways, I'm glad he's not here to witness the turbulent times we are in. It would have broken him, I think. But in other ways, I wish he were here to talk to about things, too, so maybe I wouldn't break so easily. I turn on a cd really loud, and sing along. It's the best I can do.

Here's a poem of mine that appears in Inkwell. I think it's about right for today. I miss him.

My Father’s Hands

 

My father’s hands, once so strong,

so talented, shook. Age-spotted,

gnarled, skin paper-thin, nails broken,

jagged, thick and yellowed. His hands

coaxed music from any instrument.  

 

Lighthouses, boats at anchor, sunsets

and darkness appeared out of pen and ink,

paper and paint. Dad wired a house, fixed

a faucet, and still had time to split and stack

firewood, brush a little girl’s hair, wrap

Christmas presents, and write lyrics to songs

that will never be heard again. The last time,

 

Dad reached for nothing in particular,

maybe me, maybe the sheets. His hands,

bruised purple from too many IVs, were dry

and fragile like fallen leaves that skitter

across the road going nowhere in a hurry.