A Passed Father isn’t a Past Father

Last night my brother and I planted a tree

outside Mom’s back living room window.

A Crimson Sentry Norway Maple—

with the purple hues of lifeblood itself.

It’s meant to remind her of your presence,

Your laugh.  Your touch.  Your jokes.

It stands as a reminder of how long you stood—

Seventy-three hearty years.

 

Mom cooked us some dinner

and your memory was symbolized

in every course of the meal—

It felt like a Holdridge Passover.

 

Fresh tomatoes took me back to your garden.

Cottage cheese.  Are we the last family who eats that?

Dill and sweet pickles packed in miniature jars. 

Chicken doused in New York’s Speedy Sauce.

It was all there just like it used to be.

You were there, too.  Right there.

 

I brought over some fresh sweet corn

from the notorious Heidi’s Farm Stand.

Mom boiled a dozen in the old oval pot.

Remember that antiquated distressed thing?

It was the ‘bread and butter’ variety

you used to rave about,

“It melts in your mouth, boys!”

I looked over at your empty chair

and you were sitting right there—content.

 

We watched the ‘Field of Dreams’ game

set within the ageless cornfields of Iowa.

You would have loved every minute of it!

Motor-boarding corn while the Yankees

almost pulled off a miracle in the 9^th.

Something about eating that meal

watching America’s greatest past time

enjoying corn-on-the-cob just felt right.

I wish you could have been here,

But in every way it felt as if you were.

 

As the game was nearing the end,

Mom baked some apple pie—

You know, the apple crisp kind

that was warm and sweet.

She cut up some sharp cheese

to accompany the dessert,

two tastes almost made for each other.

 

“Apple pie without cheese

is like a kiss without a squeeze.”

 

Remember saying that, Dad?

I loved when you would say that.

Mostly cause I couldn’t wait to have me a girl

that I could kiss and squeeze.

And if it was anything like that pie,

boy, oh, boy the future was bright!

I heard your voice in my head

saying that phrase over and over.

 

I went over and sat in your old chair—

to remember you, to sit with you.

Looking out the back window

at the tree we just planted in your honor

I felt you strangely and strongly, dad

I needed that last night.

 

Just because you’ve passed

Doesn’t mean you’re in the past.

You’re still right here, pops.

 

Now, you’re in the backyard, too.