Dad, I used to put your t-shirts to my face, wondering if I would have that scent sometime; I used to look for fat yellow pencils in your pockets. I rummaged through your dresser, just to look; or took secret trips to your toolbox, to find shining bits, like jewels on the green felt, to hold them, firm and cold, substantial, yours. I used to sit in chairs you had just left, to feel the heat your sitting made; I loved your hands,fixing things,moving through my hair as you read your paper; The smell of your hair, the rasp of your beard, telling stories at night;the sound of your step as you came down the hallways,the sadness when you came no longer to my room-- I was too old. I loved to watch you comb your hair;the first stroke of the hard black comb leaving the hair in a unicorn point,the part-- combing back the side,then, right hand with comb and left hand poised, the hair assumed its proper shape as you nudged the wave with the edge of your hand. And always cleaning your fingernails in the living room, fully dressed,waiting to leave. I have never questioned your strength; I have never seen you fail. Though I have feared it, I have never found failure in myself, because you never showed me what it was. If this is the first Valentine I've ever given you, Let it stand for all the other years, for these recollections are close to the surface, natural. I don't understand it well, myself, but pleasing you has never ceased being important; it has never seemed easy to please you in ways I wanted-- the recognition for grades was only secondary-- I wanted to do things well, run fast, make you laugh, impress you with insights, share an interest. I didn't always know You have a heart of silly putty, but it completes a picture. None of this defines you; it is mostly the image a small boy carries forever of his father, carries like a favorite marble, a souvenir. If I showed it to others, they might not know you, but the part or me that is still a small boy, shapeless except as you gave me shape, Meaningless except as you called me son, anxious till you said good night, stricken if you looked at me with lowered brows,-- that part of me has never wavered in its love. We will have some sad holidays; perhaps we will ease into happy ones again but on this one, this minor one, I speak, a small boy and man, of my love and admiration for a great man, my father. love,mike
Reason for writing:
I must now confess-this is a letter written by my brother
Mike Robinson.I also write, but this letter struck me
so powerfully that I felt it needed to be enjoyed by others.
He hasn't published this,he didnt even remember he had
written it, until I recieved a copy from my other brother
and I read it back to Mike over the phone. We both cried
our eyes out. And the best part.. My Dad is still alive.
SR
Birth sign: Aquarius
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