I retained all of my father’s lessons.
They are packed in the back of
my mind, next to an old smoking habit
and memories of a former flame
who flickers with each passing day.
The lessons range from the useful
to the absurd. My father
taught me how to forge my path.
But he also taught me
to do it in a straitjacket rather than
a life jacket, knowing full well
the path would flood after each rain
and that he refused to teach me
how to swim during the summer
between the fourth and fifth grade:
these lessons, these lessons.
These boxes are all I have.
I don’t get any more teachable
moments. But I know
the best way to hit a curveball,
and I can evade ten people chasing me
in the middle of a Georgia swamp.
Who needs to know that?
I’m asking. Do you know of anyone?
I expected to teach such things
to a son or a daughter—
these lessons from my father,
these lessons from a father.
Nick Gaffney