father's day
Leon Beckerman

when I was little,
five…..four....three…two. one.
everyday was father’s day,
my father was a truck driver,
no, not one of those over the highway eighteen-wheeler CB spoutin',
breaker-breaker-one-nine, drivers,
his highways were East Tremont Ave,
Amsterdam Ave, East 186th street,
and when he came home at night, it was father’s day,
special –
as I grew older six, seven, eight, nine
father’s day included trips to work,
the Brooklyn Eagle flapping its wings from a cool waft of air,
crossing from the Brooklyn night into the Bronx sunrise,
sitting beside him in the cab of his truck, talking, listening
no radio, no walkman, no disc man, no head set,
needed none,
just words,
bouncing along Peninsula Boulevard,
sitting in the refrigerator compartment of
his cheese and dairy truck,
eating hot dogs or salami sandwiches,
drinking grape or orange Sundew from a
cheerleader’s mini-megaphone,
evading the hot summer days radiating from asphyxia asphalt Bronx byways,
breathing the gauzy whey of Roquefort, blue and gorgonzola, as
the engine idled hot and blew cool air all around,
father’s day was working beside him, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen,
carrying boxes into mom and pop grocery stores,
sitting alongside him, at a counter,
or a red-white-black-marble formica table in a shinny aluminum chair, with tape on plastic seats, which always, always sounded like a pig on the squeal,
shoveling-in scrambled eggs, bacon, burned home-fries all cooked as one on a flat grill
while munching crumbly toast, and slurping coffee
talking shop, numbers and Local 805, Jim H. teamster trash talk,
breakfast will always be my favorite restaurant meal
real comfort food,
mind and body,
than father’s day was once a year,
fifteen, sixteen, twenty!
Old Spice and Aqua Velva,
before long I was a father.
but, we always had father’s day - together
so there is this long-standing tradition to spend father's day with my Dad,
and I do,
even if we haven't spoken for a while,
Father's Day brings us together.
It’s cold sitting on this gray bench,
the hot June sun bathes my face,
rest of me is cold,
during our visit I tell him about his grand and great grandkids exploits and antics,
we discuss what is happening in my life,
I ask my questions, seek advice,
as I speak he reposes there, quietly beside my mother,
somehow I always speak with him,
I share life's news and events with both,
but only to my father do I put the questions
soliciting his guidance, blessing and help.
I have never spoken to my mother,
on this day it is the same,
in truth, she has never spoken to me,
not that I can remember,
and I have not sought her counsel,
the bond between mother and son should be strong,
mine, is not.
I love my mother, but we do not share the same bond,
I linger with them, for a time,
waiting for his inevitable reply,
"Follow your heart, do what your heart tells you, follow your heart"
I rise, say goodbye to both,
his gift this day is from the earth,
one small stone - placed atop the large double marble maker,
another is added for my mother,
they join the collection already there,
Returning to my car, I remove my skullcap,
and do not turn the radio on until
I have entered the main road.

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