512. THE DAY MY FATHER

THE DAY MY FATHER...
The day my father came back from the
Navy, he was white as a ghost. I'd already
known him before I was born : he was out
at sea, in the South Pacific, and fighting WWII.
Sewing body bags, with his big, curved needles,
for burial at sea. Over the side, with a little
ceremony. Dead guys. Dead buddies. Dead
sailors on that selfsame ship.
-
He never got over the places he'd been.
Rocking slowly for days on a sickening
ocean - rising and falling with a salt-berth
and a fan; some crazy white hat for his head.
-
He was smoking endless cigarettes too.
It was nothing then, those Camels, inhaled
like the very stark freedom of home.
Old Bayonne. He was exhausted,
and seeing me, froze. I said,
in my way, 'Dad, relax; it's
just the way it goes.'
-
I knew my father before he knew me.
Sewing dead bodies for their
burial at sea.