Father and Son

Today is the official anniversary of my father's death, at least according to the doctor's declaration in the early morning hours of July 7, 2012. But the day before was when I sat by Dad's bedside with my brother and D. for 13 hours and said a final goodbye just as the clock's hand approached midnight. 

So yesterday was the day I visited his "niche" in the columbarium at Arlington National Cemetery. It was only the third time I'd been there since his inurnment in September. I went there with my sister and brother-in-law on Christmas Eve (amazed to see every single grave in the cemetery decorated with a wreath); the three of us returned on Father's Day last month with D., the first time we saw his name plate in place (it had taken some months to complete).

Yesterday I went alone, sitting across from him in the shade of a blazing late afternoon. My father's name carries such power for me—almost like seeing his face, the letters forming a physical embodiment of who he was: the first name he was given, the middle name he chose (it was his confirmation name; he didn't have a middle name), the last name that resounds with the Irish ancestry he was so proud of.

Shortly before leaving, I used the "spin" function on the Poetry Foundation's app to find something to honor of the poetry lover Dad was. I didn't read it aloud but silently to myself, and to him.

The poem, which was new to me, reminds me of his last years, when we forged a closeness we hadn't had before—characterized by, among other things, a physical intimacy, born of medical necessity and his weakening body, that was far different from hugs and kisses. (It's apt that the poet turns out to be a physician, who also turns out to have won the Nobel Prize in 1902.)

The Father 

By Sir Ronald Ross

  Come with me then, my son;

       Thine eyes are wide for truth:

And I will give thee memories,

       And thou shalt give me youth.

The lake laps in silver,

       The streamlet leaps her length:

And I will give thee wisdom,

       And thou shalt give me strength.

The mist is on the moorland,

       The rain roughs the reed:

And I will give thee patience,

       And thou shalt give me speed.

When lightnings lash the skyline

       Then thou shalt learn thy part:

And when the heav’ns are direst,

       For thee to give me heart.

Forthrightness I will teach thee;

       The vision and the scope;

To hold the hand of honour:—

       And thou shalt give me hope;

And when the heav’ns are deepest

       And stars most bright above;

May God then teach thee duty;

       And thou shalt teach me love.