Monday, February 25, 2019

Enigma

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 AsunciĆ³n, 2019

Expectant fathers being instructed on diaper changing
U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist 1st Class Anastasia Puscian/Released
from Wikimedia Commons