Bull Of A Man

I hate to leave; I see him in the yard waving as we go he looks so sad. As I drive, images past and present, make me feel undone and, when I get home I try to remove these uneasy thoughts until I can relax. He was a potent man; the strongest. Hands with iron grip, back never waning. Worked hard, lived hard, drank hard. Never backed away from trouble. I don't remember ever being hungry. Provider, the head, always took the lead. His legs gave out; He had to retire, though he fought that. To see him now, shuffling around, piddling in the garage. I want to run away. I become so stifled by this irony that I can't speak. My father. He tries to keep us; Looking for things to fix, something new to talk of. He tells me over and over, events of the day. I pretend not to notice. As I leave, he says "I love you son. thanks for helping. do you need any money?" I think of him; Alone, waiting for me. He calls, and we talk. "When you coming over?" I want to tell him, that I just left, but, I don't. We are all that is left of four men. We went through a lot, but, time erodes us. Emotions sometimes guide me; All the shouting matches, all the rebelliousness, all the carried guilt. Gone now. Only fret. A time nears, when we will part. And, I will be the last. If only I could be, the man he was. Will my children remorse? Written April 14th, 2002 © on Apr 14 2002 09:58 AM PST   18 • 0 • 1