Thinking About Dad
He is getting older.
Each time I think about him getting older,
he's older again.
There once was a hero in charcoal jeans
at a charcoal grill,
and next to him a kid in charcoal jeans
half-sized and way less faded.
He aged between each birthday gift he gave me:
I remember the bicycle, black like I asked for.
2 soccer goals, given to a mediocre soccer player
by his biggest fan.
An Aiwa boombox,
a brand I’m not even sure is still in business.
I found out later that Aiwa is Japanese
for "endless love"
but he didn't know that,
only that the salesmen said it was the best one.
He kept getting older
between each beer I drank in my twenties.
I was the only crisis of my dad’s midlife.
But then when I got sober,
again he got older.
I feel like he is letting this happen to himself,
since as every son knows,
things only happen if dad's permit them to happen.
More wrinkles keep appearing
yet he never snaps his finger.
I am wanting to keep every phone call going,
which must get annoying.
I don't tell him
that he's a treasure trove of good advice
and stories from his younger days that I still haven’t heard yet.
I can’t share that it’s because
in recent years I’ve noticed him slowly losing muscle in his limbs,
and keeping him on the phone as long as I can each phone call
is my only way
of fighting for his life.
Jordan Tate 