Thirty-Nine Years

I dreamt I saw my father last night in a house to which he aspired

He held something in his hand; a hammer, a bottle, a wire.

We looked at each other, he gently smiled. He hugged me, holding his fears.

He said, “I’ve waited a long time to do that son.” I said, “I’ve waited thirty-nine years.”

I remember things I wish were dreams. His anger, his weakness, his pain.

Holding him up when he could not walk. Listening when he could not talk.

Counting each breath one by one, until the breathing was done.

And through it all I shed no tears. I held him for thirty-nine years.

I think of my children, so young so new. I wonder what our time will bring.

I pick them up when they start to cry. I hold them to sing a lullaby.

The time will cone when they turn away. I hope that time is not near.

I’ll hold my father for the rest of my days. He held me for thirty-nine years.

I dreamt I saw my father last night. I don’t know what it means.

Will my children turn away? Will I hold them in their dreams?

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