My fourth-grade teacher once asked the class to write a poem as homework. We were given some general instructions — mostly just an explanation of what a poem was and how to organize the pentameter so that the piece would flow — but the topic and the content were ours to create.
As it happened, I didn’t need those instructions because my dad wrote poetry. Not for money, he never considered they might get published, but purely for his own enjoyment. He also used them to convey big emotions and concepts he struggled with otherwise.
And he had gotten pretty adept at this particular art.
See, my dad had epilepsy — something caused by scar tissue in his brain — and it made it difficult for him to learn new things. He could recite his phone number from when he was nine for example, but might have difficulty (fully) recounting a conversation he had earlier in the day. As a result, he worked better when he had a routine, and his vocabulary was a little limited, something he described as “trying to say apples, but having it come out as oranges instead.”
But with poetry, it was different.
No, dad didn’t suddenly become a language savant, but his concept of rhyme and flow did give him a confidence he lacked in his everyday-speak.
It gave him his groove back, however temporary it might be, and a means of expressing himself that he could master.
Dad wrote poetry about the people he loved, the beauty of nature, his devotion to God, and all the heavy emotions that were hard for him to process. It was the voice he needed to feel heard and understood.
Of course, I didn’t understand the depths of dad’s poetry when I told him about my assignment that day. I just knew that he could help. And as always, that’s exactly what he did.
We sat at the kitchen table that day — me and my dad — and crafted a poem about Halloween. There were witches and ghosts, monsters and mayhem, even the obligatory haunted house…
He coached, I wrote. Carefully, thoughtfully, strategically. It was a magical, transformative experience, a dance of sorts between me and those words…
And I loved every line.
That was the day I discovered my love for poetry and the written word. That was the day I began to grasp the power of the words we share, and the impact they could have on the rest of the world around us.
“Let your words paint the picture,” he told me. “Let them help others see what you feel.”
That was the day I knew I had to write.
Today, I am a writer by trade, something I’ve been doing professionally for over twenty years now. Something that allowed me to work from home, spend more time with my family, and watch my kids grow up.
Over that time, my portfolio has grown to include a variety of articles and papers and copy that span a wide range of topics and fields.
I’ve had the privilege of collaborating with some extraordinary people doing equally extraordinary things. And I’ve seen first-hand just how powerful our words can truly be.
But I’m still a poet at heart; I’m still in awe of that magical flow.
And all of it, a gift from my dad.
Our relationship had its challenges to be sure, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that the fault is mostly mine. But I always loved him, and I’m equally certain he always knew it. Ultimately, I think that’s what counts the most.
Dad passed away last week.
He was 82 and his health had begun to falter over the years, so we knew this day would eventually come. He also desperately missed my mom. She had started visiting him in his dreams, and I think his heart broke a little more each day he woke up and she wasn’t there.
We just didn’t think it would come quite so fast, and without warning. Without the chance to say goodbye.
So, as an ode to my dad (and a miss-you nod to my mom), I wanted to share the last verse of a poem dad wrote for her when they were still dating back in high school.
A poem he wrote to profess his love for her, before she hung up the phone after their nightly calls.
But even though we’re not together,
We’re really not apart…
Because you’re always with me,
In my dreams and in my heart.
Bye, Dad.
Love you.