“Rock of Ages, cleft for thee,
Let me hide myself in thee…….”
We used to share a hymnal to those precious words
Of a beautiful time that has long gone by.
I can almost hear your voice in my ear.
“Should my tears forever flow….”
Your rich bass, my squeaky breaking adolescent tenor,
But man, how we used to sing together.
Your voice is gone…you voice forever missed.
Your last service…your perfect attendance;
Gone …all gone…gone forever.

I tried to pay my last respects….
I couldn’t quite do it, even though I wanted to.
This isn’t my father, lying here in this walnut casket.
This graying shriveled shell is not the musician
Whom I remember taught me to play the harmonica.
“Shenandoah” “Amazing Grace” “Red River valley”
This isn’t the amateur archeologist that I remembered;
Who dragged me to every fossil bed in five states,
Who taught me so much about dinosaurs and geology
By the time I was ten years old…This isn’t him.

This could not be the thespian that I knew,
Who looked and acted like a country bumpkin
But could recite Longfellow, Poe and Tennyson
With such passion and fervor, that you wanted to applaud.
This isn’t the man who could stand and deliver Mark Anthony’s
“Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears….”
Like Burton only wished he could...This isn’t the man.
Not the man who took me through the forests
To show me every tree and every different type of leaf,
Who could keep me chopping and hoeing in the garden for hours
While hanging on every tall tale that he could make up
As he went along, row after sun blasted row.
This is not the gardener and supreme narrator
The same man who knew every secluded mushroom patch,
Every fishing spot; who trekked me through the woods all night
With just a kerosene lantern, to show me all of it’s denizens.
This is not the man, who lies feeble, shrunken and stiff,
Here before me……

My father was a man of God..... A true believer.
A true believer of the Holy Word, and he taught it all to me.
But I failed him...I knew it...he knew it...
But he would never say it...never to his last breath.
I was trained and destined to be a man of the cloth.
But I took the cloth of camouflage, the parachute and the rifle.
I turned my back on the cloth of the alter.
I became the warrior; not the healer
of burden souls, as my father was.

I escort my mother to his side...
This is crushing her, and I know,
For I can see death slowly creeping into her eyes, already.
I know that I will be back here again in the near future;
to see her too, like this...again to replay my grief.
He was her only life...her only love...the essence
Of her very existence....This will kill her.
I know this will kill her.

I go to his side for the last time....
"While I draw my fleeting breath",
I have my mementoes for his great trip.
We haven't changed since the Pharaohs.
"While my eyelids close in death...."
My first Bible...placed beside him,
My silver jump wings from Paratrooper school...
He was so proud of that...always so proud of me.

A bagpipe resounds with "Amazing Grace"
And it's all over...whatever demeanor, strength,
Backbone or bearing I tried to show is gone.
I crack...and the tears well and pour out.
I place my tired, rusty old harmonica
In his stiff, cold graying hands.
For just a second, I feel his hand squeezing
One last gesture of affection.
I glance down and see his index finger,
As it caresses the back of my hand.
My heart skips, and skips again.
I know what I saw...I know what I felt.....
In confusion, my eyes seek out his face,
Where only seconds before, my teardrops fell.
His eyelids flutter...blink...then open.
Eyes clear, sharp and blue-grey of my memories.
He gazes longingly, and a smile crosses his lips.
He whispers, “It’s OK son, Everything’s OK"
"No need to worry, I'm fine...."
I can't move, frozen in unexplainability and fear.
I am glued, unmoved, my mind flees
my reasoning frozen stiff.

I am aware of the darkness...
Aware of the immersion of sweat encasing me.
I sit straight up in bed, fighting the pillows,
Heart pounding, my voice....
Kidnapped by the scene I just witnessed.
The clock reads 4:25 AM,
My wife sleeps soundly, there by my side.
I slowly gain my breath back...
My head finally slows to a dull roar.
Shaken, I arise and go to the kitchen,
To clear my head, and to verify
That I'm back in the real world.

I sit quietly and contemplate...
I pick up the phone and dial....
4 rings....5 rings...6..7..8.
I hear an incoherent, half asleep voice..
"He...He...hello..."
"Pop, is that you" I ask.
A moment’s silence, then:
"Who else did you expect in your mom's bed?
At three thirty in the morning?...are you nuts???"
"Yeah Dad, a little...just wanted to say thank you,
Thanks for all the things you taught me, a long time ago'
"And oh yeah, Pop,...I love you...!"


A choked reply, " I huh..I ah..I love you too son...
Have you been drinking again?"
"Naw Dad, not drinking...just thinkin',
Had a bad dream, that's all,...are you OK Pop?"
"I'M OK son....Everything's OK ...No need to worry...I'm fine...
Now get your butt to bed, boy, and get some sleep...
And go to church this Sunday, will ya?"
I'll try Dad, I'll try....Good night Pop"

The connection ends with a harsh dial tone......


I miss him already.......

03/10/2009

Author's Note: I wrote this over ten years ago not knowing what it would be like to lose a parent...I found out two years ago when my father passed away at 93 years of age, he was a good rightous man...this piece does not do him justice.....

Posted on 03/10/2009
Copyright © 2025 Fredrich Mohre