Father And Son Night

Today would have been my dad’s 101st birthday.
I wrote this poem years ago about one of my clearest memories of him — a night that remains vivid even now.

Father and Son Night

Kindergarten.
Father and son night.
A night for fathers to spend time with their sons.

A photograph, taken by Mom,
of you and me, dressed up and ready to leave.
The date on the back of the photograph:
February 11, 1972,
written in Mom’s tiny handwriting.

We’re both in suits.
In the photo, your suit looks black,
though I think it was a dark charcoal gray.
My suit — much more 1970s:
bright blue, double-breasted jacket
with bright brass buttons,
and gray slacks, striped.

Then the ties —
your tie maroon,
mine a bow tie, blue and white vertical stripes —
clip-on, of course.

We’re both in trench coats —
yours gray, with a black-fur collar
that matches the furry Russian hat you’re wearing.
My coat: navy blue.

Two men dressed up for a night out —
Father and son night
at the elementary school cafeteria.

I wish I remembered more of
our evening together,
but the memory is mostly gone.
Just images, flashes, and haze remain.

The night was chilly,
complete with light snow flurries.
We walked to the school — it wasn’t far,
four blocks.
The snow gave a soft, rhythmic crunch beneath our shoes.

I remember the walk to school,
the cold on my face,
the lightly falling snow.
I remember the warmth of my hand in yours
as we made our way down the darkened street.

I remember small white cups of light-red fizzy punch,
cookies,
a raffle for something — we each held a little yellow numbered ticket.
I don’t think we won.
I remember sitting at the long cafeteria table, eating spaghetti.
I remember you talking to someone you knew.

I didn’t talk to anyone at all —
I had no school friends. I was too quiet and shy.
I don’t remember the walk home.

I wish I remembered more of that night.
Did we talk? I was six, so we didn’t philosophize, but
what did we say?
Did you make me laugh with
one of your famously corny jokes?

Other than our occasional trips to
the grocery store, this
Father and Son Night
was the only time
you and I
ever did anything together.

Later, I learned about the contractor
who ran off with the ten thousand dollars he’d been paid
to add onto the house — to double its size —
without finishing the job,
without paying the workers or for the supplies.
You and Mom worked two jobs to pay everything off.

Then there was Mom and her relentless obsession —
the mountain cabin, first one, then two,
then another.
Two more after you died.
Old buildings moved onto the land,
remodeled and restored.

You had to work more —
two full-time jobs, extra shifts when you could.
What little time you were home was spent
in exhausted sleep.

Father and Son Night.
I wish I remembered more
of that night — that one night
of my life
I got to spend, alone, with you.

A night for sons to spend time with their fathers.
Time was what we had that night.
There wouldn’t be much more of it.
Seven years later they found
the brain tumor.
Eight years later, nearly to the day —
February 8, 1980 —
you were gone,
then buried in the ground.

I’m left with a fading photograph of that night
and some vague, dreamlike memories.

The cold white marble stone that
marks your grave in the military cemetery
remembers your name, your birth and death,
remembers which wars you served in.
But it doesn’t remember
Father and Son Night.