Monday will be the 20th anniversary of my father's death.
By day, he would kick anyone and everyone's ass in golf.
By night, he would summon the Gods and soothe the savage beast with his violin.
Throw in a deadly sense of humor that was drier than the Sahara - and a wit that re-defined "quick" - and you begin to get a picture of my father, John C. Smith.
January 31, 1991
I speak directly into your ear
and your head twitches, then pivots,
your mouth gaping as if surprised.
But there are no surprises here.
You are childlike and helpless
so I kiss you. Your cheek is whiskered
and warm, your skin a thin casing
barely holding the heat and bones
that want so badly to leave.
As you focus above me, staring
at something I cannot yet see,
I tell you exactly what I am doing.
More for my benefit than yours.
To excuse this invasion of privacy.
Death seems a formality now.
It is the dying that I'll remember.
With each full breath
you move further away.
Dad: How's that pig gonna smell if you cut his nose off?
Mom: John . . . not again.
Dad: Terrible.
.
3 comments:
Dad: I went to the dentist today. You know what he said?
Me: No, what?
Dad: Your teeth are OK but your gums are going to have to come out.
Whoa - that's really weird because I went to the doctor today about this aching in my shoulders:
Doctor: Have you had this before?
Kevin: Yes.
Doctor: Well - you've got it again. That'll be 50 dollars.
Remember the old fashioned pliers he had and when we had a loose tooth he would get the item out for us!
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