I.
He did not know his father long
for Charon took him piece by piece,
one leg, then the other—
then across the river Styx
after chores and watermelon.
At six the river seems so wide
by his mother, sisters, a brother
at a grave in which his father lay.
A weight of dirt on a box; the funeral—
crushing—I do not know he cried.
He never does; not so any would see.
And the year’s pass in Grandma's garden
tending tomatoes, peppers, corn, cucumber,
mulberry switches for occasional lessons
and the weight of watermelon.
In the river Ohio,
brothers swim to Dairy Queen
between adventure and invention—Sinbad
and Edison—but only after chores.
Work started young and aged.
Mother had bills to pay and young
growing toward maiden flights—Maturity
found him early.
The years passed in Grandma's garden
set his eye to proper need
and to the sea
in service of country and family.
I do not know he cried between adventure and tour of duty, or the letters to or from: sisters, mother, or his love, or the brother on a buddy system. But years pass on the starboard horizon tending coastlines, states, and country and coming home where the river's not so wide, and a shotgun in a father's hand could not conquer love. II. I was there as they walked the aisle; exchanged rings— a subtle weight in a mother's womb growing toward a maiden voyage, birth and naming—I do not know he cried as I was given right to carry his name. I was not what they were hoping, though graciously accepted— one of five, the first— the fifth being the charm; a daughter—child of grace. Father had bills to pay: a wife and young growing toward their time to leave. He traveled starless nights for bread beneath the crust that braced our home. I recall the yellow chalk, the smiling face, coal dust marred with streaks of sweat, watching as children scrawled shapeless forms on slate. I was not there when night broke him, the crashing rock, the weight of crust, that snapped his back and threatened spirit. He'll never be the same, they said. Walking, perhaps, with a brace across the back, but never the same— I do not know he cried— I do not know I cried— mother did. III. The years pass and children grew waiting for powdered milk and cheese and shopping hand-me-down charities the youngest will not recall. The strength, the grit, the love. My father never showed us pain, the struggle, he hid it well with a smiling face. He'll never be the same, they said. Not the same but stronger, and healed. The Valley of Steel lost its glitter, and the river seemed so wide. Unemployment lines grew. At night, while hunting night-crawlers, he said he was going away to conquer towers and skyscrapers; to battle White Lung planted by man; a breed of cancer taking lives. I wanted to cry then; but he wouldn't. At ten a child wants to make a father proud. We'd fish Buffalo tomorrow. Then weekends and holidays when work permits. Father had bills to pay: a wife, children. He lifted lines of government milk and cheese. The youngest will not remember. Aladdin's Castle tokens, amusement parks, state to state vacations, dining out, the finest clothes, bikes and Barbie, the youngest will recall. Yet I recall the day he left—I cried. I remember welfare lines, the food stamps; the charity clothes closets; I recall the day he left—the sacrifice, and how a child wants to make a father proud. IV. The years pass and children grew while Grandma slipped on muddy banks reaching for a husband's hand as Charon crossed the river Styx. I never got to say goodbye. There, by sisters, brother, his wife and children, I did not see my father cry at a grave in which his mother lay; a weight of dirt on a box—he stayed until the final shovel's cast. That night, I heard him down the hall. I did not see my father cry, but I heard him down the hall. The river seemed so wide. V. And the years passed and his children grew to men and a woman of grace with sons and daughters trailing behind. Our father, long returned, now scales the heights to offer coats of paint. Papa and Grandma smile and watch grandchildren scrawl shapeless forms on slate. I still recall the yellow chalk, the smiling face; coal-dust marred with streaks of sweat. The strength, the grit, the love—I see it still. I recall the day he left—the sacrifice. Years pass and children grow. At thirty a child still wants
to make a father proud.
Keith E Sparks Jr. Copyright © 2004, 2019
Written in 2004, Later appeared in "Facets" 2019
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