Father

Dead eight years now and still guiding my life and patterns,
I want to think and know how you thought and knew.
Yet you were unknowable to us.
A great mind, partner at 35, four children, lovely wife
But so unhappy
And mean.

We kids loved you but feared you more.
We knew not to make a sound
On the days when beer was your God.
How could we, when young, understand things that even today befuddle me.

You chose to beat her
You chose to threaten to kill me
You chose to think your children wastes.
You could have done so much more with life than the ultimate resultings.

Dead eight years now.
I remember your wasted, fallow body and oversize head
Lying in that hospital bed in Manchester in the spring of 03
Screaming at Mom to not let
Your brother see you die.
As scary still to me at 90 pounds as you were when full blooded and healthy.

I loved you as a boy, worshiped you even.
What choice did I have as a child? You were my Dad.
Small kindnesses you performed (sometimes).
Maybe that was all that was possible.

Mom wants my compassion for you to override the anger and disgust I feel, along with the rest.
For your childhood was so, so awfully hard and barren.
But I cannot know what it was like for you
I only remember what you were like with us.