Tomorrow, Dad (in memory of my father)—a poem

We’ll go for a ride

in that new car of mine

tomorrow, Dad.

Tomorrow we’ll do it for sure.

When I come back down here

to the bless’d news

that while I slept

they found a cure

for that dreaded disease

that takes your insides

and steals the breath from your chest.

We’ll roll down the windows,

turn up the tunes,

and be the highway’s friends.

Then we’ll go out back

and work in the garden.

I’ll hoe the rows

while you plant the crops,

Straight Eights, Early Girls,

Half-Runners, and onions,

not to forget the sweet Summer Squash.

After which, we’ll sit on the porch

and smoke and jaw

about Bush on this

and Gore on that.

Mother will cook dinner

and call us in,

you’ll give the blessing,

then we’ll eat ourselves fat.

Then we’ll watch Millionaire

and some Matlock too,

while we reminisce

on the grand day we had.

Yes, that’s what we’ll do

after we leave the hospital

when I come to get you

tomorrow, Dad.

And although it’s not true,

these are nice thoughts to have,

and they just might bring comfort

as I seek sleep this night,

which out of all the nights

that I’ve lived so far

will be the first with you

gone from my life.

And maybe I’ll wake up

and do these things

with thoughts of you

close at hand,

walking with your memory

and talking with your spirit.

Yes, I feel certain I’ll see you

tomorrow, Dad.

***

August marked 17 years since Dad died. I wrote this shortly after we got the news. Today is Dad’s birthday, and all the time that has passed doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could spend today with him. I ran into a man–Denver Eagle–I had once delivered newspapers to at the Go Mart one day. He couldn’t recall quite who I was, so he asked me who my “daddy” was. When I told him, he said exactly this: “Ooh, you got a good daddy. You got a good daddy with a good name. There’s few things in life better than having a good daddy with a good name.” There certainly are.