Sometimes You Just Need Tucked In

Sometimes You Just Need Tucked In

I remember when I was a boy
And my dad would put us to bed.
My brother and I bunked,
Stacked like cord wood—
Tim on the bottom; Me on top.
Dad, the silly sandman,
King of 45 W. Van Buren St.
King of the World.

I had some fears when I was young:
War with Muammar Gaddafi,
Falling out of bed, robbers,
Our house catching on fire.
Just having dad tuck us in at night
Somehow made all the worries
Dissipate like the morning fog
In the Catskill Mountain valleys.

I’ve tried to pass down the same
Curtesy of security to my children,
Carving out time to lay beside them
Telling stories and praying prayers
To quiet the thunderstorms 
That tend to billow in their brains,
Unrest under the chest.

Sometimes you just need tucked in.

Last night my bro and I
Returned the favor to our father.
It had been an onerous day for dad
Fraught with fear and angst,
News that sucked the oxygen
Out of that little apartment
And left us all just a little frazzled.

So we followed him into his bedroom.

He crawled into that hospice bed
And hugged his pillow like a teddy bear.
I yanked the covers up over his shoulders
As Tim rubbed his head,
Raking his fingers through his hair.
Dad’s eyes were already closed.

Oh, how the tables turn.

I rubbed his back as I prayed
Over this temple turned tent,
Perishable and imperishable.
I lifted my shuddering voice 
To the Father of my father.
I hoped to quell his anxieties—
To hold the same sway his presence
Carried when I was a little lad,
Curled up like a potato bug.

There are days I can’t believe
This. Is. Actually. Happening.
And other days when I feel
So close to the celestial I could cry.
Last night was one of those nights.

Sometimes you just need tucked in.