My Dad

By Mike Smolarek

 

Not a day goes by that I donít wonder,

wonder what would be different

if you were still here.

Would brother still drop out of college?

Would sister still move away

forgetting us all?

I wonder if you would have coached

my baseball team,

the Bullets,

the fluorescent orange cap with the big B

covering the little hair you had.

 

You never had much hair, mom said.

The black and white photos of

you in your uniform

showed she spoke the truth.

I looked at those old pictures

in the dusty green photo album

in the drawn of the cabinet

with the shiny brass, handle

to look at you eyes when I could no longer

see you every day.

 

Were those really naps you took with me

every Sunday afternoon

on the carpet in the living room

after watching a football game?

I did not care then.

I would curl up next to you,

with my Curious George stuffed animal,

using your rising and falling stomach

as my pillow

and sleep the afternoon away.