Castles in the Sand
So far all my poetry has been about my mom, but with today being Father's Day, I decided to finally write one about my dad.
***
Where are you going?
Can I come along?
I promise to be good.
I promise to be perfect.
He always keeps his back to me,
his long shadow casting a pall
across my entire life.
I'm still not strong enough
to make him turn around.
It's not up to you
(it is if I say it is)
His heart has never been anything
but a mystery.
Some would even say that
he doesn't have one in the first place,
but I know better.
He buried it long ago, it's true,
but its ghost continues to haunt him
from the dark corners of his soul.
It is the only thing that scares him.
Fear is manipulative;
fear is a threat.
Tears mean war.
He is like a cornered animal,
ready to fight.
Ready to flee.
Even now,
in my mind's eye,
his face remains forever twisted
in scorn.
No matter how hard I tried,
I eventually always failed.
I was the good one,
supposedly,
but not good enough.
Daddy, will you play with me? Dad?
In time I learned
that my inferiority
was an inborn trait,
something I could only
attempt to make up for.
His conditional praise
was littered with reminders of it.
I was permanently less than,
as plain to see
as the sky is blue.
Beneath my father's superficial charm
and narcissistic bravado,
I believe he felt the same,
but he would never admit it,
not even to himself.
That throne belonged to him.
He'd earned it.
If he just didn't look his failures in the eye,
then surely they couldn't catch up to him.
If he did,
it would all come caving in
like castles in the sand.
Wherever he went,
from morning 'til night,
his liquid medicine followed.
Its scent wafted off him like a cloud
as he tossed me into bed at night,
his whiskers scratching my face
like the spines of a cactus.
It hurt,
but a good-night kiss from him
was worth the pain.
Any affection at all
was a rare opportunity.
(one for the money, two for the show,
three to get ready, and four to go...)
I knew I could find him if I looked
in my nightmares.
I knew my bleeding hope
was a dream.
For thirty-three years,
denial has been my security blanket.
It's kept me warm.
It's weighed me down.
Too many cold winters
have left it tattered & torn.
But I remember his smile too,
the moments when it seemed
like maybe I was getting through.
I know the exact way
his voice trembles nervously
even now
when he says the words,
"I love you."
I remember
he told me once
how, as a child,
his father would wake him in the night
to beat him if the hangers in the closet weren't right.
He stood up and raised his voice at the universe,
defending himself against an invisible jury of his own making,
as his story exploded out of him,
muscles clenched
like he was still ready to do battle,
and I was shocked
by the sight of accidental tears
on his furious, frenetic face.
I'd never seen him cry,
and I never would again.
I didn't even know he could.
Truth was,
emotions scared me too.
Part of me has always
understood him,
defended him,
related to him.
That scares me more.
My sister never let her fear
control her back then.
If she did,
she hid it well.
She stood up to our father
in ways I couldn't imagine
and walked outside afterward
with a glassy smile & vacant eyes
to greet me & the other kids
like everything was fine --
as if we hadn't all heard her terrified screams
coming through the upstairs window
just a moment before.
I blamed myself, you know.
It was easier than blaming him.
I believed I could control the world
if only I tried hard enough.
So I vowed once again
to next time be better.
It didn't take long
for me to become a superb actress,
an expert high-rope walker.
When he took all her pictures down
like she had never been born,
I stopped & stared--the way passing drivers do
at a fatal car crash--
then gathered my nerves
and continued walking down the stairs
like nothing was wrong.
I sat down on the couch,
script in hand,
and read my lines.
Years have gone by since then,
but I still know all the words.
When we talk now,
he puts on a happy voice
that quakes with the force
of our faulty foundation--
carefully avoiding all the taboo topics
in our shared minefield--
then rushes to end the conversation
before reality has a chance to find him.
We always say
that we should call each other more,
but we never do.
Perhaps we never will.
Today, however,
is Father's Day.
I know that he is the only dad I'll ever have.
I know that he'll probably never be the one I want,
nor the one I deserve.
I know I should stop waiting
for him to face me
and the truth.
But hope can be its own drug,
and addiction
runs in my blood.
One day at a time, they say.
One day at a time.
I take a long breath
& pick up the phone.
(take one)
"Dad?"
Fin
***
***
Where are you going?
Can I come along?
I promise to be good.
I promise to be perfect.
He always keeps his back to me,
his long shadow casting a pall
across my entire life.
I'm still not strong enough
to make him turn around.
It's not up to you
(it is if I say it is)
His heart has never been anything
but a mystery.
Some would even say that
he doesn't have one in the first place,
but I know better.
He buried it long ago, it's true,
but its ghost continues to haunt him
from the dark corners of his soul.
It is the only thing that scares him.
Fear is manipulative;
fear is a threat.
Tears mean war.
He is like a cornered animal,
ready to fight.
Ready to flee.
Even now,
in my mind's eye,
his face remains forever twisted
in scorn.
No matter how hard I tried,
I eventually always failed.
I was the good one,
supposedly,
but not good enough.
Daddy, will you play with me? Dad?
In time I learned
that my inferiority
was an inborn trait,
something I could only
attempt to make up for.
His conditional praise
was littered with reminders of it.
I was permanently less than,
as plain to see
as the sky is blue.
Beneath my father's superficial charm
and narcissistic bravado,
I believe he felt the same,
but he would never admit it,
not even to himself.
That throne belonged to him.
He'd earned it.
If he just didn't look his failures in the eye,
then surely they couldn't catch up to him.
If he did,
it would all come caving in
like castles in the sand.
Wherever he went,
from morning 'til night,
his liquid medicine followed.
Its scent wafted off him like a cloud
as he tossed me into bed at night,
his whiskers scratching my face
like the spines of a cactus.
It hurt,
but a good-night kiss from him
was worth the pain.
Any affection at all
was a rare opportunity.
(one for the money, two for the show,
three to get ready, and four to go...)
I knew I could find him if I looked
in my nightmares.
I knew my bleeding hope
was a dream.
For thirty-three years,
denial has been my security blanket.
It's kept me warm.
It's weighed me down.
Too many cold winters
have left it tattered & torn.
But I remember his smile too,
the moments when it seemed
like maybe I was getting through.
I know the exact way
his voice trembles nervously
even now
when he says the words,
"I love you."
I remember
he told me once
how, as a child,
his father would wake him in the night
to beat him if the hangers in the closet weren't right.
He stood up and raised his voice at the universe,
defending himself against an invisible jury of his own making,
as his story exploded out of him,
muscles clenched
like he was still ready to do battle,
and I was shocked
by the sight of accidental tears
on his furious, frenetic face.
I'd never seen him cry,
and I never would again.
I didn't even know he could.
Truth was,
emotions scared me too.
Part of me has always
understood him,
defended him,
related to him.
That scares me more.
My sister never let her fear
control her back then.
If she did,
she hid it well.
She stood up to our father
in ways I couldn't imagine
and walked outside afterward
with a glassy smile & vacant eyes
to greet me & the other kids
like everything was fine --
as if we hadn't all heard her terrified screams
coming through the upstairs window
just a moment before.
I blamed myself, you know.
It was easier than blaming him.
I believed I could control the world
if only I tried hard enough.
So I vowed once again
to next time be better.
It didn't take long
for me to become a superb actress,
an expert high-rope walker.
When he took all her pictures down
like she had never been born,
I stopped & stared--the way passing drivers do
at a fatal car crash--
then gathered my nerves
and continued walking down the stairs
like nothing was wrong.
I sat down on the couch,
script in hand,
and read my lines.
Years have gone by since then,
but I still know all the words.
When we talk now,
he puts on a happy voice
that quakes with the force
of our faulty foundation--
carefully avoiding all the taboo topics
in our shared minefield--
then rushes to end the conversation
before reality has a chance to find him.
We always say
that we should call each other more,
but we never do.
Perhaps we never will.
Today, however,
is Father's Day.
I know that he is the only dad I'll ever have.
I know that he'll probably never be the one I want,
nor the one I deserve.
I know I should stop waiting
for him to face me
and the truth.
But hope can be its own drug,
and addiction
runs in my blood.
One day at a time, they say.
One day at a time.
I take a long breath
& pick up the phone.
(take one)
"Dad?"
Fin
***