Who is this Man?
Published in Crow’s Feet
Photo property of author.
Who is this Man?
We are, all of us, orphans, sooner than we expect
Who is this man who lies loosely in the hospital bed?
He's the one in white tennis shorts, at the net: quick, and sure.
Who is this man whose feet are now bare, lost in his two large slippers?
He's the one who could lift me off the ground, spin me around until I was dizzy. Laughing in the August sun.
Who is this man who is in his pajamas daily?
He's the one who never missed a day of work in coat and tie; crisp white shirts in tidy rows in his closet.
Who is this man who cannot wash his own hair?
He's the one whose handsome face kissed me goodbye in the mornings; Old Spice permeating the kitchen.
Who is this man without the strength to hold a book?
He's the one who knew more history than any university professor I ever had.
Who is this man with tubes for oxygen?
He’s the one who’d race me to the end of our yard and always let me win. He was my superhero.
Who is this man too tired to watch TV?
He's the one who didn't yell at me when I tore a page from my math book in fourth grade. And taught me multiplication tables.
Who is this man who scares me when he coughs?
He's the one who ran beside me, holding the back of my bicycle seat, sending me down down the sidewalk. Calling out: “keep peddling, honey.”
Who is this man too weak to eat?
He's the one proudly raking leaves in front of our brick house. Sweet, musty smoke on his clothes.
Who is this man whose eyes have sunk into his face?
He's the one who always smiles when he sees me: no judgments, no criticism.
Who is this man who cannot stand?
He's the one who stood next to me and patted my arm while I got stitches. He’s the one who could fix anything.
Who is this man who has grown so small?
He's the one who took me to church in the snow; my small, mittened hand in his: warm and strong.
This is the man who loved his wife and children with all his heart.
