A poem for my dad, who walked on from this life to what’s next twenty-six years ago today.

The Veteran’s Cemetery, Early November

Early November, when his autumn work was done,
he left us standing stupid and staring
at the blue-brown of the coming
Appalachian winter.

He left behind the shrinking garden, harvested,
the expanding lawn, mowed its final time.
He left behind the handy man
who could fix anything,

took leave of the newly retired postal worker
who never went postal, and abandoned
his role as little patriarch,
begetter of two sons.

He abdicated head-of-household status, in
the house that was never his, left the loved
wife of forty-two years and her
overbearing weakness—

That night he shed this life like Wednesday’s dirty clothes
and would have been surprised by all who braved
early snows to watch him lie down
in a proud soldier’s grave.

I still think of him often, almost daily. He was a quiet and principled man, and I have tried to emulate him in as many ways as possible. Although I’m sure I caused him to shake his head and wonder, Who is this kid?, he was steadfastly there with what I now understand was his expression of love and support.

I have often wanted him back here, to ask his advice on this or that, to see his expression of joy at watching my sons grow, to sit quietly on the porch with him as evening comes on. But even if he had been able to live the longer life he might have had, he would probably be gone anyway by now. And in most ways these days, I’m glad that he’s where he is, far beyond the reach of the ignorant and arrogant and belligerent madness that has taken over and erased the ideological stance to which he adhered in his lifetime, glad that he’s far beyond the horrific sight of the country he served with such pride on the verge of going down in flames.