I remember now my father’s tone
the one that sent me
half-way up
and half-way down the stairs
to sit in limbo
not because he told me to
just because

I can hear the treads creak
as he sat beside me
the dark rich smell of his pipe
the rough wool of his jacket
the softness of his voice
as he whispered
he never meant
never meant to hear his father’s voice
from his lips
and his hand light on my head
and then riffling through my hair

Later he told the story of when his father was 10
a long way from the shetl
but not long off the boat
selling eye glasses to Amish farmers
from the back of a horse drawn wagon
and how his grandfather broke the heavy wooden checker board
over his son's head for presuming to win

And later, a father myself
how I resolved to not be like that with my Carly
and the times I shone
and the times I failed

And if this is the pattern
if we move beyond step by slow, measured step
beyond and past
the marks our parents left
if so, then what did the father endure
that his love is doled out by the buckle end of a belt