Fatherhood

The thing is, there is no manual.
And even if there was, it would be wrong
the moment you had one, much less another,
each of them so individual
that nothing works twice. They think, or thought
they were learning the world, and they were,
even as I was learning them in a constantly changing
learning curve, often two or three of them
all dancing at once, contradicting what you thought
you knew, changing seas as you shifted sails
and rudder and direction in hopes,
less of having a destination in mind,
than finding any place for them that is solid ground
for their journey.

I lost them once, and it was the saddest time of my life,
discovering I loved the chaos of fatherhood
even more than marriage, and when they returned
in a time of need, it was like the return of the sun,
that blissful chaotic dance where you learned
in the end nothing mattered more than a love
that let them be them in the full knowledge
that if I was nothing else, I was a safe shore,
and they the ships, occasionally coming home to port,
and in the rest of their sojourn, sure, if of nothing else,
of the compass I left them with, allowing me
to sit on the shore in peace, a job done, if not always well,
at least in love, which once again, proves to be enough.

About this poem

Simply reflections of my own Fatherhood journey, which continues.

The picture was taken in Kennebunkport, Maine.

Tom