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Dad, I remember well the night I grew up. 
I know you remember that night too...
   I know you never forgot this happening:
  
It was 1966, an early Fall night, around 10:30 when you called the police.
   Jerry had been...agitated...for several days. 
   Muttering under his breathe at dinner...
       “kill ‘em...the gun...the gun...”
He’d shake his head briskly side to side 
As if dislodging unwanted thoughts.
Neither you, nor Mom, nor I gave the slightest indication 
    we had heard a word.

But when the police showed up, I heard you talking lowly to them.
Then...Jerry was being dragged backwards down the front lawn
     ...in handcuffs...twisting, resisting, screaming
     “I’LL KILL YOU ALL! SO HELP ME GOD! YOU’RE ALL GONNA DIE!”
They folded him into the back seat of the squad car
     pushing his head down and shut the door.
A few windows of nearby houses had lighted briefly
     then went back to peaceful darkness.

I knew always that much you remembered.

But I do not know...and never will...if you remembered this:

I had watched it all from my bedroom window.
Then I heard a sound unknown: my father sobbing.
     Loud and deep from your chest they rose
     And filled the stillness of our soundless home.

I quietly walked the short hallway to the kitchen entrance
     And saw there a man and woman embraced in torment
         beyond my ken.
Mom held you up in her arms, embraced your slumping
     wracking frame as tears fell from her tightly-squeezed shut eyes.

I was 14. I’d known for years — known? — felt, heard and seen was
     more like it...that something — unknowable — slumbered in our home
In the basement lair where Jerry dwelled.

Then at maybe 4, 4:30am I was asleep in my twin bed 
     in my room next to your’s and Mom’s.
I awoke when I felt you lay the length of your 5’ 8” body 
     down onto my bed and press up firmly against my back.
You were wearing your light blue boxer shorts and a white tee shirt.

“Babe?” you whispered in my ear. “You awake?”

“Yes, Dad, I’m awake. What’s wrong, Dad? Tell me? Are you OK?” 
     I turned over and slipped my right arm around your shoulders.
     You had hunched them closely into my pillow and 
Had nestled your stubbly chin into my neck.

Your drew in your breath sharply...then not truly
     to my amazement, wracking sobs burst from your chest...you couldn’t                   stop...they came forth, unabated.
Oh, Dad, my Dad, my dear wonderful 
     so so sorrowful Dad, I said to myself. 
Your anguished cries tore at my young heart.
What can I possibly say...or do...to give you comfort?

So, I rocked you gently and held you closely;
      stroked your arm, stroked your brow 
And whispered words, I hope you heard.

“It’s OK, you can cry, Dad. 
Let the tears flow...and flow...
      please, go ahead, Dad, I’m here, I can hear whatever — whatever! —
you want to tell me.”

Your deep heavy sobs subsided. Then
      you nuzzled your face deeply into my ear 
      and quietly murmured:
          “What do you do, Babe, when your child is 
   so very ill, so very sick,
so very dangerous?”
          “You bring a child into this world;
   he looks healthy and whole...
and yet how can you tell his mind is so badly damaged?”
          “I had to do it, Babe! I had no choice!
   He would have killed us! You know that,
don’t you? He wants us dead!”

Your words stopped then.
Again I lay there thinking, “What can I possibly say to give this man I do so 
    dearly love any words of comfort now?”

But...no words would come.
I could only act instead of speaking. 
So again I stroked your arm from shoulder to wrist and rocked you gently, 
    just a bit.

Until finally, to my lips, came these words
    — a gift truly from beyond my ken —

“It will be alright, Dad. Please...please
    hear these my own words to you, my dearest Dad, and trust them:

    Tomorrow will be a new day; 
    Tomorrow is here now.
    You love your son, your only son. 

                               I KNOW that, Dad! I know it.

    And...I’m sure your only son, 
             very deep down, knows that too. 
             That it’s true. 
             That you love him deeply, dearly, completely.
             I know that’s true.

    Rest now, Dad. Rest. 
    Tomorrow’s here now.
    Tomorrow’s here, Dad.”

Your breathing slowed; your eyes had closed.
Then, without speaking, you pushed up out of my arms.
Swung your lithe frame over the side of my bed 
     and walked out without a word,                     
Pulling my bedroom door shut behind you.


Barbara Dickenson 
28 December 2017
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