A Prayer for the Quiet Man Who Never Quite Came Home

Happy Father's Day to the silence that raised me

Maybe it was the creak of the hallway floor. Or the rules I learned by pressing my forehead to locked doors. Either way, this holiday reminds me of the wind, always coming, always going.

When I was in second grade, I lived on a military base. The houses were cookie-cutter and baked to bleed into one another—duplexes for miles, chain fences in between. One evening, the sky turned to charcoal. My father’s head cleared the gutters. My tip toes couldn’t get me over the windowsill. He grabbed a ladder, and we both climbed our way to the roof.

I don’t remember what was said. It’s most likely nothing was. Silence and laughter both felt like hugs, and while usually my father brought the latter, on this night, there was only crickets and the humidity. We sat. Shingles sticking to skin, and the sky erupting. Lightning struck the horizon. Thunder shook the house.

Not a single raindrop touched the ground.

No one’s parents are perfect; we are all adjacent shimmers in the diamond of life. Same aches, different paths. Mine led me through the trenches, airplane wings, and stuffed into duffle bags. I was still a child when we could wait at the gate for passengers to get off the plane. I was still small enough to hide under the arm-linked chairs, then jump into the aisle when Daddy walked through the door. He still smiled like life had meaning.

This is a poem written two ways. One for the father I grew up with, and the one he became after the military. There’s a third thing, but that’s saved for the chapbook.

Prayer for the Uniformed Man

Our Father
who lived in camo and departure gates,
who packed his love between gold-toe socks
and M4's.
Deployed be thy name.

Thy assignment come,
thy orders done
on foreign land as they are at service Sunday.

Give us this day our weekend routine:
movies, card games, and ice cream. 
Forgive us our neediness,
as we tried not to ask
when you'd be coming home again.

Lead us not into mortuary,
but deliver us from the trenches.

For thine was the salute,
and the leaving, and promotion stripes.

Forever and ever—
Amen.

Prayer for the Quiet Man Who Never Quite Came Home

Our Father,
who art in the wall portraits,
creaking floorboards and locked doors.
Hollow be thy silence.

Thy absence come,
thy mornings run
you from the house, as if it wasn't yours.

Give us this day our daily crumbs,
and forgive us for not understanding ambition,
as we learn to forgive the ones
who raised investments instead of children.

Lead us not into old photographs,
but deliver us from aging. 

For thine was the voice of reason,
and the never home, and the souvenirs from foreign lands.

Forever and ever—
Amen.

Thank you for reading!

My next chapbook focuses on family, generational trauma, and revolving grief. If you enjoy sipping on tea that tastes like family secrets, tag along by hitting that cute pink subscribe button. More is tea spilling this winter.

If you like what you read, consider supporting me by snagging a copy of my first poetry collection or giving Pike a treat!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ Until next time! ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pike waits patiently during his midday training (⌒▽⌒) ♡