I remember more what my father did
than anything he said; how when I was small
he would fill the kitchen with his dress uniform
and lift me high in his arms, so up I felt tall;
but then, the uniform would be put on again later
and he would leave, my mom said
to teach soldiers how to fight;
this pattern repeating until the day
he came home, folded the uniform
and never wore it again
and he no longer belonged to the army
but just us, his gentle eyes and large hands
always finding and fixing in comfortable silence.
***for Father’s Day coming up–NOT this week, lol–thought I would share some of my very earliest memories of my dad.