Reconciliation
My father was an athlete
And a soldier at eighteen.
He never told us anything
About the things he’d seen.
He worked at selling shoes,
Mostly for children, in a store,
Six days a week, a different life
From fighting in a war.
I tried to reconcile those halves,
Both aspects of my dad,
But snapshots with his army pals
Were all the proof I had
Of that early version of the man
Who never had the time
To retire and relax because
He died while in his prime.
He never knew his grandkids,
Had no condo in the sun,
Yet he was loved and that’s what counts
When all is said and done.
So Happy Birthday, Daddy!
Your four children have your smile
And I guess that’s quite enough for me
To need to reconcile.
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