I had written hundreds of poems about everything I could imagine,

but none about Dad.

Why, I thought, had I waited so long?

I remembered that as a child my talking, my language, my thoughts, and

finally, my writing had come from the women who taught me.

Women had filled my mind with words and images,

stories, poems and songs.

Poetry came from those roots.

Dad gave Kenny and me another kind of expression,

a quite one, having to do with character.

He was a man of good humor and a soft laugh.

He was really tough, but we remember mostly his gentleness.

He would let your go with him anywhere on earth

and make you feel comfortable about being there.

He never took the last of anything, not even a piece of bread.

He was not words or images.

He was backbone.

He was determination.

He was encouragement.

He was forgiving.

He was all of the things you can’t say and can’t imagine.

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