When I think of days I remember you,
I think of stature, a man in the kitchen,
always ready with a smile,
to indicate your quiet awareness,
of everyone around you.
I remember the day we sat together,
while you told me about a guy
and there he appeared,
on the Lawrence Welk hour,
I was playing the notes on my trumpet,
my lesson for the day,
Red River Valley,
and I looked at you,
to see just a bit of a tear,
and my old man showed me there he was real,
you said to me then,
“you keep playing like that and you’ll be as good
as, well, you could sound like, Louis Armstrong.”
I knew you were just trying to love me, your son.
You got up from your chair
went quietly back to the burgers,
in the kitchen that place we always remember
standing with a grin,
Dad in the kitchen,
with an elegant smile on his face,
where a very brief tear remained,
he’d listened to his boy, me Pops,
play a youthful rendition of Red River Valley.
I won’t forget that day Daddio, much like I cannot
possibly ever forget you.
Happy Father’s Day my Papa.
Take good care of the road ahead for all of us coming your way.