Reading Poetry to my Father

This is my first Father’s day without my father. He passed away this past April at the age of 89. I was there, and it was just the two of us as he breathed his last breath. I closed his eyes and held his hand and kissed him and once again told him how much I loved him. For several hours before, I read him poetry, in particularly John Greenleaf Whittier’s “The Barefoot Boy.” This was his favorite poem. He knew it by heart and always quoted verses at appropriate times to my brothers and me, especially during times when my brothers and I were complaining or grumbling about the circumstances of our youth. The poem speaks to the joys of youth and the blessings of youth and the reminder that it passes ever so quickly. And so my father always reminded us of this truth. Life is precious. Every day. And life with fathers is precious. Oh so precious. It was certainly precious with my father. He taught us to try to never lose the youthfulness and innocence of our spirit. Like Whittier even says in his poem, the world will try to drain them both from life. My father always encouraged us not to let it. But he also said it would be hard. And in fact, at times it has been. My father didn’t lecture me on how to live my life. He just lived his in an audaciously sublime way and let me watch. Perhaps that is the responsibility of fathers. Our life lived is the legacy we leave our children. And so my father lived his life full of love and wonder and joy and adventure and giving and even youthfulness. I learned some of the lessons his life taught me, and I have failed at many. But as a father, he lived a life that showed me the way. Even now in my sixties, I can do that for my children and grandchildren. I can live a life worthy to be imitated. The choice is mine. From an eternal perspective, I am still a boy. I am still the innocent, barefoot boy on the hillside in John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem. My life is still ahead of me. One day? One year? 10 Years? More? “Cheerily, then, my little man. Live and laugh, as boyhood can!” My last moments with my father were precious like the many moments we spent together throughout our lives. But in these last moments, I recited “The Barefoot Boy” to him. He was not conscious really, but I read anyway. I can’t help but believe he heard my words. I prayed he felt my love. His favorite verse was the last verse in Whittier’s poem. As I read it to my father for the last time, I seemed to hear him speaking to me again and reminding me again of the way life should be lived. “Ah! That thou couldst know thy joy. Ere it passes, barefoot boy.”

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Will see you soon.

Anon

(Photo: My father and older brother and me. 1955)