For My Dad

I can remember how much

bigger you were when I was small
and the way your fingers would
swallow my hand when we walked.
It was hard to keep up

with your long, leggy stride.

Your mustache was trimmed to perfection,
and one time while you were shaving

in the bathroom I saw you cry.

The radio was playing a song about

how little girls have to grow up, and I watched

the hairs in the sink spread where tears fell.

Once a month you had to go away for your job.
If it was summer time, Mom and I came too,

and while you were at work I would play.

I scraped knees climbing cannon ball statues
and running through the Pineapple Fountain
in Battery Park.

Once a year we ate hotdogs

with other families whose dads were in your unit.
You loved convincing me to sing
“I’m Proud to be an American”
for the other basemen – it wasn’t hard;

I always liked receiving your attention.

During the school year when mom had to work,
we couldn’t come to Charleston with you.
You used your absence as an excuse
to expand your childhood Hot Wheels collection
(I can remember how you were disappointed

when I asked for Barbie clothes instead).

When you brought me cars anyway,

you did make sure to pick out colors
little girls were supposed to like.
My favorite was the hot-pink Monster Truck,

from that time you took me to a show and made me

wear your over-sized ear protectors from the shooting range.

One day when I was seven,

Remington and I left our toys in the drive-way.

The Blazer, oblivious to our belongings,
crunched them into the gravel.

I could not reassemble my truck;
it was a broken mess of bright plastic and metal.

Things are different now.

While you shine your gun collection
I plot ways to send it toward space,
where pressure could cause bullets to burst.
Then the heat of the atmosphere

could burn them to bits as they fell.

I do not understand

your commitment to protecting Our Way of Life

with war. You would die for our country.

I would die if only for a pocket of peace,

even if that place was not in the United States.

These are the thoughts that are keeping me awake.

Sometimes in these moments, when I can’t rest at night,
I'll steal a pillow from your bed like I did when

you left home and I couldn't come with you.
The lingering smells of bar soap and softened grease,

WD-40 and plane exhaust,

can still lull me to sleep.

Now that I am grown up,

I don't always agree with you and sometimes

we argue. I know we can't always understand each other,

but you are part of why I am who I am.

Thank you for still loving me and for letting me be

the reason you cried over the bathroom sink.