Memories of My Dad

A few years ago, I participated in a literary challenge to write about our fathers. I wrote this one for Father's Day. This is not a poem; it's a reflection of the time that my father brought me some Siberian iris tubes, and each year, I feel his presence as the irises propagate annually. The ones in the photo are from this year's blooms. 

Blue Iris:

A Reflection of my Dad

I didn’t realize it would be the final kiss on his dimpled cheek, that the irises he brought would be his last gift to me. “They’re blue, like your eyes, and they have your name,” he winks as he carefully unwraps the newspaper and inspects each delicate tuber. 

Thinking back as if it were just yesterday…

* I was picking green apples in our backyard on a hot August afternoon. I glanced down to see my T-shirt covered with ants; I ran, screaming, “Daddy! Daddy! Calmly, he brushed the ants off my shivering 4-year old self. “There, there, it’s nothing. See? All gone.”

* Glancing down at my hands now, I remember my little fingers clinging tightly to the rim of the old green wheelbarrow, as I sit atop a pile of fresh grass clippings, inhaling the sweetness. My own dimpled smile reflects his as he merrily sings to the tunes on the radio.

* His lap is the best seat in the house while we watch the Tigers defeat the Red Sox on T.V.

* As a sophomore in high school, I can still hear his lighter click as he inhales yet another Lucky Strike and patiently draws lines and digits as my dad the chemist patiently explains one more geometry theorem to me for the night.

* Purple heart, bronze star, and a battle wound scar in his leg that never kept him from running with the ball during many a neighborhood baseball game.

Once, he brought a spray of blue Siberian irises for me to plant in my garden. There, outside my window grows a sea of blue, each year more irises than the year before, winking at me, loving me. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos