Superman

(Nov. 20, 98)

I remember

at least… 

yea, at least three times

when my Dad,

after work,

jumped from his enormous,

white,

two door,

Chevy Beaumont.

His cape was tied tightly

around his neck

so it wouldn’t blow away.

The oversized paper towel,

cut from a second quality roll

down at the mill,

waved in the wind.

I suspect

that he always called ahead

to insure that Mom

gathered us

at the front room window

to watch his antics.

My Dad, like Superman,

flew in circles

around the house,

finishing with a figure eight

in the front yard,

around the part that’s always green.

He was laughing,

I could tell.

It was a jolly laugh,

like Santa Claus.

Only my Dad was tall and thin.

My brother and sister

laughed excitedly.

I waved hard and fast,

smiling with glee.

And my Mom?

Well, her eyes smiled,

as her husband,

the love of her life,

became a Dad.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016 marked 19 years since my Dad, Harvey Weeda went to be with Jesus.  I had hoped to post this sooner than today.  Time and space required other things of me I suppose.  Here, now though, is a poem I wrote several months after my Dad's passing.  Simply a remembrance of a life well lived.