From Father to Son

From Father to Son

He was born in a small 

South Dakota town 

in the east of the state

It was late in November

He would die on the same date

Far away 

in California

He returns to me

In dreams where I hear

His voice and see his face

An only child

His mother American Norwegian

His father American German

I see him again on rubber boats

A fishing pole in hand

Sitting at the breakfast nook

With a pencil in his fingers

Talking to a circle of professionals

Speaking to graduates

Sitting in his office 

Stumbling drunk in our home

When drinking with his friend

Carrying a deer rifle or shotgun

Explaining his trophies

Roaring in laughter

In our last phone call

Where he speaks to me alone

His cancer has odd names

While eating him alive

Faster and faster it grows

Inside of him 

Each word is chosen

With our histories entwined

In the silence of daily life

He tells me I'm his son

I blubber at that line

As I know it settles

An argument with my mother

Of years long before

When he questioned my paternity 

that hit my mother as hard as any fist

He probably never used

Her words to me on that

Made me wonder why I felt

A washout between father and son

When I'm suddenly transported

To a place on a ranch near the Badlands

Where he plants me

With my brother's rifle

Looking up a small wash

To silence me as he walks

Farther ahead to put himself

Unseen by me

From where I hear his gun

Down a muley

You're my son he says

It's an apology to my mother

And to me about our separations

That often appeared

As I've seen him throughout

Our years as he walked away

On so many occasions

From an interest in my life

Now so many years away

From that phone call

I understand the canyon

Between my son and me

Where I have no rifle

Only words to slay

Only words to say

I'm sorry I learned

The wrong lessons of parenthood

Passed from generations

To me

Barry G. Wick