Father’s Day

Yours are the arms that held them
when they were measured in inches,
in days and weeks,
when each day was a landmark
of learning, when the miracle was fresh
as a morning rain.

Yours are the hands they held
tight, as they stepped on the yellow bus,
the hands that applied band aids and cookies
with equal aplomb, The hands that picked up
Legos and Barbies each night, only to play
again in the morning, yourself made young
by their very presence.

Yours are the ears that listened,
at times well, at times less so,
that heard hearts poured out, hearts broken
and hearts hopeful, that core memory dump
late each afternoon as the day tumbled
from a mind full of thoughts and a soul unformed.

Yours are the eyes, ever watchful, ever fearful,
ever aware that the miracle did not end at birth,
that new step forward, each inch of height and heart
are magic, are only nominally in your control,
and even that is fleeting.

Yours is the heart that alternately breaks and rises
with theirs, that swells with each victory, and sighs
with each lesson learned the hard way, cries
with each fresh scar and tear that mars their perfect visage,
that stands fast with them, no matter what, Yes,
no matter what.

Your is the home, the way station,
the place they are from and the place they will,
if you are blessed, return to,
where, as they grow and continue their miracle,
they will leave, but never quite,
oh no, never quite.

About this Poem

OK, I little smaltzy, but sometimes, smaltzy is just how I feel.

My daughter is now 21, beautiful, graduated from college, and on her own path of life. My son is 16, handsome, creative and smart. Both are kind, and a joy to my heart. People I would love, I think, even if they were not my children.

Ah, but since they are, I have been especially blessed.

Tom