MY FATHER'S VOICE
I can hear his voice even though he is not here.
A deep, quiet voice. "It'll get better before you get married,"
to calm 6-year-old me when I scraped my knee.
Or, "this is a Kentucky coffee bean. Put
it in your pocket and use it like a worry
stone." Or, "see that cloud? I'm going
to wish it away." Of course, the cloud
goes away anyway, but with those words
he taught me patience and optimism.
I can hear him sing -- "This old man, he
played one, he played knick-knack on his
thumb," and "Who threw the overalls
in Mrs. Murphy's chowder?" I can hear
him tell the kids in the balcony at school
to "Listen up." He was their gym teacher
and they listened to him. I can hear him
start one of his many stories -- "This
one time ...." and I can hear him tell Koko,
the Chesapeake, "C'mon girl, it's time
to walk Annie home." I can hear his voice
-- a deep, quiet voice. I can hear it still
though the years have passed and he's not here.
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