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Poem

Consistency was never a word for dad.
He was like a painter’s wheel with squares whited out
so nothing ever flowed quite the way it should.

In fact, there was something foreboding
about the concept of color coordination 
and alphabetical order
that he always seemed to avoid.

Things have never been in constant pattern
nor have we ever viewed a schedule in our house.
I can’t even list how many times
we’ve been just barely late.

Someone once said my dad wasn’t a good one
because he doesn’t always lay down rules
or make us stay in on school nights.
“There’s no sense of order! Children need a sense of order.”

But there is something no one understands
and that’s that even though it isn’t perfect
and there are things that could improve,
There’s consistency in where it lacks.
And we wouldn’t change him for the world.

by Sarah Rosendahl

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