My father came
in the footsteps
of a post-war survivor
distracted by demons.
He seemed to care
in obscure ways,
difficult to discern
as I much preferred
tangible hugs.
He did his dutiful best
to provide for me by hard
work, his insignia for love.
Since he decoded caring as
Maintenance, he checked
the frequency of my bowel
movements as a baby
to measure my well-being
like a mechanic
dips an oil stick. He once
showed emotion when he
punched trash cans
in the alley after I had
an all-nighter prom, an
unfamiliar tradition
in the islands. Still shocked
by his departure from military
restraint, I don’t know if he
was angry or relieved
when I came home so late.
As an adult, I settled for
the unsolved mystery that
was my father. Beginning
with hugs, I cared for
the old man until his
last days in the ways
I had wanted for myself.
© Patsy Asunción, 2019
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| Expectant fathers being instructed on diaper changing U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 1st Class Anastasia Puscian/Released from Wikimedia Commons |
