“Daddy Two”

Excerpts from “Daddy Two”

*This was a long form poem, so I have only included some of my favorite parts.

Glenorchy, New Zealand where the Misty Mountains were filmed.

My mom prefers remembering the times

when good defeats the bad—when Frodo climbs

with orcs upon his trail to Mordor, meets

the eye, and kills the ring so that he’ll greet

the Shire again, because to him his home

is everything, is all he’s ever known,

is simple, pure, and worth the fight despite

his loss of innocence. The fearless knight,

the dear dark horse, the bare foot Frodo Baggins, 

a dewey-eyed and humble hobbit, wins!

My bright-eyed mother loves those stories where

the good prevails and all the world seems fair.

***

Soft memories that sleep behind her pupils—black stems earthed

in Alabama dirt where Daddy Too birthed

livestock. My mother named the farmhouse hens

until she came to understand that when

she left, the hens did too.  Each May, the lure

of summer fans, and unlocked doors, and bir

tree branches brought her back for buttered steak, 

for blueberries, for pancakes on  lake

filled afternoons when cloudy skies had cleared. 

She spent her summer mornings near that dear 

expanse of Van Gogh grays and blues.  The sound

of hash browns frying, fizzling, simple mounds

of plucked potatoes whisked around the pan,

would bring her to her toes. She’d wash her hands

beneath the eyes of Daddy Two, then set the plates

before her siblings wandered in.  The late-

comers would never see the baker toss

his crispy, crackling hash browns high across

the room. She caught a few, then Sam the mut would eat

the rest. He licked her feet and took the treat

and lay there waiting loppy-eyed for more.

(“Shhh,” little hands slipped ham onto the floor).

Though Daddy Two was turned away, always

he caught the crew, and always he would say,

“U’re goin kill that durn dog,” and they would clasp

Ole Sam and stroke his dirty fur and gasp

“O No Daddy Two! No!” because they knew

he sent the animals, their pets, away. 

But Sam, bighearted pup grew on, beyond

that June the bank employed my mom, the pond

grew dry, and Mama Two moved into 

St. Martin’s Home forgetting Daddy Two.

The alzheimer’s erased him from her mind.

My mom recalls how Daddy Two would wind 

his truck through gravel, heat, and trees. He let 

her drive it once so that my mom could get

some practice.  And when my mother scraped

the paint right off the new truck’s shiny side,

he simply looked on out, then up, and sighed,

“It’s alright, baby.  It’s okay.” The dent

that years of childhood failures bent

into her thoughts softened that sunny day

my great grandfather, Daddy Two, repaid

an inexperienced mistake with love,

the unconditional kind in glove

compartments, closets, boxed on shelves too high.

***

God spoke to her through summer days

by quiet lakesides counting cows—the praise

she gave was silent trust. My mom believes

that God is good, that he is real. She needs

no proof, not even now.  She says that faith

is like a little child’s belief—the saved

will lead a simple life of love that’s paved

with sacrifice. 

***

My mother says that when I reach the age

for having little ones, she’ll be the best

grandma, and take toddlers out to breakfast,

to give me time to get some rest. She’ll make

a garden filled with strawberries.  They’ll taste

them, waste them, bake sweet cakes with them, and leave

her kitchen stained with leaves. My mom will weave

Aesop’s fables with gardening and read

them stories, books, Little Women, Ballet Shoes, lead

them to a love for words, for literature,

her voice the music of the Pied Piper.

My mom will be the lull within the storm

with lullabies to soften cries, with warm,

bubbly bathtubs, soapy soothing scrubs, 

and cotton towels with which she’ll wipe the suds 

from little eyes and cheeks. Bedtime back rubs

before she sends them off to bed with hugs.

Then milk and cookies sneaked past me to please

babies muffling little giggles. They'll freeze

when I walk by—their silence saves them, then

my littlest will sneeze. The mother hen

will cluck and cluck and crawl into the bed

with them, and they, my chicks, will move their heads

to rest upon my chest. My mom will sigh

as I sleep through the night without their cries.

My mom will watch us slumbering and pray

that God will keep us from all pain. She'll say,

"Please help them grow with patience and peaches,

seeds of faith and grapes; gentleness, oranges, 

peace, pears, love, and watermelon. I dream

to see that they will be a child of yours forevermore

my King.