Peter’s a father and so is my son
and my father, mysterious man
not entirely knowable (is anyone? I wonder)
he was rabbinic, considered, with beautiful hands.
(He could play piano and violin. Sometimes he did)
He did not give much away from the point of view
of how he felt though I would ask him (and ask him and ask him).
He did what he thought he was supposed to do:
provide for his family, read many newspapers
for current events purposes, watch the news,
go to the Beth Israel Synagogue Center.
People often came to him often for advice.
He told jokes and barbecued.
He fried eggs. He danced
with my mother on the linoleum kitchen floor.
He only wore white shirts although my mother
pushed for color, even unsuccessfully tried
for Banlon. Harold wears Banlon she said.
Not a successful argument.
He had diabetes, died of a heart attack
younger than I am now and often
in surprising ways when I hear a good joke,
when Ahava sings, when I find a picture
of all of us, young, I miss him.
sweet
love this. your dad sounds like a father I yearned for.-xxx