Sadie and Daddy

Today is my niece Sadie's birthday. Three years ago I watched my sister, Alysia, bring her into the world, and reveled in the joy of a new baby with my sisters. So Happy Birthday Sadie!!

As is often the case February reminds me of my dad. I even dreamed about him last night. He gave me a hearty pep talk, and I woke up feeling positively refreshed. So this post is dedicated to the people I love in this month of love, February. The poem isn't new, but it seemed apropos.


Earlier
Evenings are what I remember.
Sneaking out of bed at ten on school nights,
I would watch my parents’ ritual
from the darkened side stairwell.

Daddy, a smile on his face, dimming the lights,
taking mom in his arms to dance the sway of night;
as the Everly Brothers played, together they would dip.

But it all began much earlier than that.

When I was eight, he woke me
for the two o'clock lamb feeding.
My exhaustion faded during this quiet time,
entertained by Dad's jokes
interwoven with simple lessons.

I was six when he convinced me that living
with him and mom was better than running
away at dusk to lounge with coyotes.

When I was four, I awoke from a nightmare
and went in search of him for reassurance.
I found him making Christmas gifts in the garage;
he stopped and listened to my little girl fears
before singing me back to sleep.

After growing up and leaving home,
it was dad that answered the midnight
phone calls to ease my homesickness.
He was always there when I came home
from vacations, and we would talk
about my adventures until early morning.

Memories of family trips spent in Arizona,
since we couldn't afford much else, faded
beneath my experiences in Europe.
All of Dad's dreams to travel the world
meshed with my reality. For the first
time in my life, I was the one able to share
new places, people, and thoughts,
and through my words, I took him with me.

We traveled to Hungary, Scotland, and England.
From our front room couch, we would trek down
cobblestone roads and into small shops for cocoa.
Budapest gypsies came to life fiddling melancholy;
Lock Lomond pipers played dirges for him,
while he should have rested, when he should have slept.

Later still, my Master's Degree in hand, we spent evenings
discussing my poetry and what I would accomplish next.
Gentle reminders to travel and learn all I could,
echoed after the ten short days we had before the end.