I wasn’t with you
when air first filled your lungs,
was on a different kind of duty
halfway around the world.
It would be nearly a month before you
reflexively curled your hand around my forefinger,
looked with your blurry eyes
upon my face with wonderment.
I didn’t know what I was doing,
helping to nurture a baby into adulthood,
despite what the books told me.
My fear of making a mistake in fatherhood,
greater than the fear of heading into battle,
would only ease slightly over the years.
You grew intelligent, strong, independent.
Whatever fatherhood mistakes I made along the way
left no discernable scars.
More good advice than bad, I hope.
You unlearned much of what I taught you,
gained knowledge through travel and experience.
But some lessons still held,
about character, kindness, respect, dignity,
lessons imparted as a young man, when I was still
trying to learn them myself.
Now, in the autumn of my life,
though you are grown, productive,
adventurous, happy,
I still impart my fatherhood duties,
looking out for your welfare,
guiding as you request advice.
And in the end, when my time is done,
I will still wonder.
Was I a good father?
