Our dad never spoke about his childhood at all when
We were kids. We would ask him and he would chat
About this and that and the other thing; we were easy
To distract, and Dad was gentle and funny and to hear
Him on any subject was a pleasure. Many years went
By, and then the sons decided to haul him back to his
Native Pittsburgh. We were checking genealogy. But
When we drove up a snowy hill, and found the house
He had lived in as a child, he burst into tears. We had
Never seen Dad cry before, none of us. We sat quietly.
My brothers and our father are big tall guys and there
Was a sort of long big tall quiet in the van. Very large
Men being silent is a sound. Good thing no one spoke.
Any words right then would have been a sort of insult.
We could talk, afterward, about how our father opened
The gates and told us everything, all the pain and loss,
All the ways he created his gentle quiet wry manhood,
All the wit and dignity and love and patience and guts,
All the ways his life was a song of grace and gratitude.
But for now let’s just sit here in the back of the old van.
Give the man time with his tears. He waited something
Like seventy years to cry these tears. You have to give
These tears some space and some respect. In a moment
He’ll say, gentle as always, that’s my house! my house!,
But now let’s just sit and revere him from the back seat.