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Six Phases of Dad

I: Childhood
He is my hero, my proud Marine
who plays with me, comforts me,
poses for pictures
with an arm always around me.
He's very strict, always making me
clean my room and get dressed for church
and be a good boy in church
even though he never goes -
It doesn't matter because he loves me
and I know when I come home from school
he'll always be there,
until bedtime,
and again when I open my eyes
the next morning.

Then one day,
they took my proud Marine
away.
They took him to Vietnam.
I cried myself to sleep for a year.
He came home.

II: The Teen Years
Your rules suck.
You’re old-fashioned, mean, so out of touch,
your mouth glued to that beer
when you’re not beating the hell out of me
for something
you always taught me to do -
stand my ground when someone confronted me.
I want long hair, a girlfriend,
to go where I please
and you want a Devil Pup, a baby Marine,
someone to hang on your wall of plaques,
ribbons, certificates,
figments of the man whose heart is
still dripping in ’Nam.

So leave me alone, just leave me alone,
and I will walk in the forest
singing Hendrix, Moody Blues, Beatles and Zeppelin tunes
because they are my family,
they understand me
more than you ever can.
Go back to painting your houses
and find someone else
to turn into a Marine.

III: 1988 Laguna Beach
Dad walks behind the house,
seized by curiosity over
the Vietnamese woman and her American husband,
my landlords.
He walks with such humble, dignified steps
my old man, turning gray
in the spirit of the graced.

He spends an hour with the woman, Thanh,
my old man who taught me to
respect everyone
but who privately never considered any other color
to be quite equal to white -
he would never eat a bowl of rice
or look an Oriental in the eyes after ’Nam.

Dad walks back, his wide smile
failing to hide pools of sadness in his eyes,
twenty years of animosity released:
“She told me all about what happened after we left ’Nam.
It makes you want to cry.”

IV: Christmas ’94
He sits in his favorite chair, red Christmas cap
on his chilly head
filling out a face drawn inward
by the cancer eating his lungs -
his voice, little more than a rasp.

He smiles, cracks jokes
on his day:
He's throwing his greatest Santa Claus party.
Living room floor’s covered with three layers
of presents and kids, grandkids,
carols, lights, laughter, joy.
How could anyone embody the
Christmas essence of giving with love
more than this noble old dying Marine,
my beautiful Dad?

The next week, he takes us out to Camp Pendleton,
shows us the amphibious vehicles he drove,
schools he attended and served as instructor,
a captured Iraqi tank,
so much accomplishment and pride blazing from his eyes.
He runs into a young Marine corporal
who asks him what his rank was.
Dad tells him; the young Marine
realizes his condition,
steps back, salutes him,
thanks him for serving the country,
asks questions about the war years.
Tears fill Dad's eyes. He coughs.

That night, New Year’s Eve,
we stand upright, crying,
hugging each other goodbye.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, Bob.”

V: February 6, 1995
I remember your eyes when
I walked into your den and
you sat in place, hugging Mom,
already dead.
I remember your look,
so sincere, so faraway,
so filled with a love
you didn’t much express in words
but would now wear into Eternity.
I remember you buzzing Mom
to help you crawl back into bed
(man, you hated that bed),
then giving her a hug
when you recognized the Light
reaching out to claim you.
I remember your eyes
gazing into the universe,
the emaciated shell of your warrior body
no longer necessary for your flight
with your dear friends,
those fellow freedom fighters,
the eagles.

“Make me thine eagle/
of soul progress/
Soaring far above dusty lanes/
of narrowness.”

Words of a song whose melody
filled your mind those final months
like rows of ribbons once filled your chest.
Soar well, Dad.

VI: Old Warrior Soul
As months and years pass
the tone of your voice
fades into wind
and your green eyes
are absorbed by trees
but in my walk
my duty my desire
to get it done, advance
to a greater capability,
I wear you as you wore
your uniform -
saluting life.

Your passing links us closer together,
old warrior soul.
All that remains is for me to finish
the dance
and join you as your friend
in Light.
I’ll know where to look:
Straight in the Eye -

CODA: December 1998
An eagle passed by,
with his wife,
looking at a cafe menu
taped to an outside window.
The short silver hair, the eyes, the smile,
the way your eyebrows raised
behind his sunglasses -
ten minutes you were there,
all of you… the way you folded your arms
across your chest. I looked
away, tears in eyes,
seeing you again, on Earth.
I shook my head, looked over once more -
You were gone,
Flying again.