Legacy of a Dad

 
To me you were always the high-strung professor,
rarely present except to storm out of your study
with a voice like booming thunder,
“who took my scissors??”
Making it clear our presence
was an inconvenience
to your comfortable routine
and military orderliness.
We offered bald-faced denials
wrought by fear,
followed by surreptitious returns
of “borrowed” items…
when you weren’t looking.
It’s how I learned to keep a straight face
and to disappear.
 
But occasionally,
there was the playful you
regaling with tales
of “hell week” and explosives exercises gone awry,
underwater demolition and dodging crocodiles,
and your eyes would be misty
remembering the you that was one of the guys,
a frogman in a jeep,
with a camaraderie that academia could never offer.
I thought, if only that you
would take notice...
 
Later, as your words and capacities started leaving,
you worried about legacy,
whether your teachings would be remembered
or ideas would live on.
 
When words were finally gone,
you often communicated in tears,
and I wonder
if it’s because you finally noticed
that your link to the future
was never in papers or conferences
but had been underfoot all along.