Looking for My Father
My parents were married for 67 years and lived most of those years in a big old house that needed a lot of care. It was my father’s project and my mother’s pride. This poem is based on an incident when my father was 90; it was inspired by James Crews’ “Telling My Father.”
I found him in the cellar
holding a piece of hose attached to nothing,
holding it gently in two hands, as though
it were a piece of delicate machinery.
He looked up perplexed
when I appeared partway down the stairs.
“I don’t know what to do with this.”
He gazed at the piece of orange hose,
voice thick with sadness.
The piece of hose – it had a purpose, but what?
This not-knowing from the man who knew how
to fix everything in the house.
“Me neither,” I said, “Do you think it matters?”
“She said it wasn’t working.”
Subtext: he would do anything for her,
because he loved her, because he couldn’t
stand her nagging. Because for the moment
this hose held his worth as a husband,
a fixer, the one she could depend on.
“Let’s go upstairs. She has lunch ready for you.”
While they ate, I attached the hose and
directed it to the drain. Later I would find
him running the vacuum cleaner
because she asked him to, because
this much he still remembered.


Your beautiful descriptions of your father are heart-breaking and comforting all at the same time. Thanks for sharing! ❤️🙏
Thank you!