Roots and Wings: My Daddy’s Gift to Me
A Tribute
My Daddy
When people say to me, I can see your father in you, I am pleased. Not because he’s beautiful, Although he is. And not because I’m vain, Although I can be. But because he is impossibly large hands Escorting a terrifying papery moth Outside, Instead of squishing it. He is melting ice cream, Sticky on my fingers, And tucked in the curls Of his beard. He’s saving it for later. He says, And I giggle, The hood of the car Warm Under my little legs. He is the smell of train tracks, And my grandfather’s house, And a roll of mints, Tucked in his pocket. We are so different. And yet, When I ask him If he’s Ashamed of me He says, I don’t care what anyone thinks, You’re my daughter, And I love you. And those words Are now written On my heart. -JPS
I didn’t set out to write a poem about my Daddy, but he has been very much on my mind lately. Since his Parkinson’s diagnosis, I’ve been traveling to see him every three months to visit and help in whatever way I can. This poem arrived, wrapped, and delivered into my brain during one of our visits to the pool. My mind chewed it over for a while, like gum that never gets stiff and tasteless, and I stored it for future delivery into the world of real written words. We continued our trip, and life went on.
It’s been a few weeks since that visit, and my writing has been stalled. Yesterday, I realized I’d never materialized this poem, and it was blocking my outflow pipes, sticking in the shoot of my creativity.
You’ve forgotten about me, it cooed.
I’m of the mind that creative ideas are gifts from the ether. Where do my ideas come from? What is the source of anyone’s inspiration? I can see why the Greeks spoke so highly of the muses and their fickle graces. I was at a Nick Cave concert some years ago, and he said something that wedged itself into the foundation of my creative understanding. He said that creativity isn’t something you can produce. You have to make yourself empty enough for it to fill you.
And maybe you can’t leave little gifts behind, clogging up the pipeline.
There are so many things I could say about my Daddy, but I’ll leave you with this story. I was sixteen or seventeen, too young to be the only waitress on the floor of a large diner. It was the dinner rush, and I’d roused my manager from her pile of half-smoked cigarettes at the back table to help me.
“At least get them drinks,” I pleaded as she twisted her arthritic, yellow-stained fingers together, shooting panicked glances around the dining room. “Or stop seating them.”
She’d never waited tables before. That was painfully clear.
Most of the patrons were kind. Some tipped more because they could see I was doing my level best in a wildly out-of-control situation. Some were myopically impatient and short. A few were cruel. Between the hot smell of cheap coffee, the salty mist of grease coming from the serving window, and a grumble of discontent rising from the diners like smoke from a toaster, I didn’t have time to process any of it.
I was ready to quit, or scream, or possibly both.
I whipped out of the kitchen, little jelly cups clutched in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. And there he was, my Daddy, sitting on the cracked vinyl bench of a booth in the corner, looking at the grubby plastic-coated menu with a smile on his face. Tears welled in my eyes, and I made a hasty retreat into the prep area. Wedged between the soda fountain and the salad prep bar, I wiped furiously at my face with stiff paper napkins and told myself there wasn’t time to cry as the tears poured out of me like soda from a broken spigot. It cleaned me out. And when the rush of tears passed, I realized I felt calmer.
I don’t remember what he ordered or even what he said. He was there at a moment when I didn’t even realize I needed him. And he didn’t have to do anything. Just being there was enough. I served him the mediocre fare that the diner was famous for and didn’t charge him extra for his side of whatever it was. He left, and the shift ended, and I didn’t work there for very long.
Time passes, and memories soup together. Most of them break down into the rich broth that everything else simmers in, delicious but undifferentiated. Others soften, their sharp corners and edges absorbed, but their flavors distinct. And some persist, like potato peels, still the same no matter how many times you boil them.
This is a potato peel memory.
It is also perhaps a reminder that we don’t always know when we’ve touched someone’s life. So many small acts of kindness go unremarked and unappreciated. But who we are for people matters. Being there matters. As my Daddy gets older and needs me more, I want him to know how much he’s meant to me and how much I cherish every opportunity to return the support I’ve always felt from him.
Being there matters.
It is truly an honor.
Such a beautiful tribute. I think it's perfect. Well done.
Love your writing and you. Based on what you've shared about your dad, I see him in you.