Who Dad?!

Confession

I am not an innocent, no matter what else these writings suggest. I want to make that clear. I can still be surprised by a potential for violence in me. It's a violence few have ever seen me exhibit, but it's something I have long wrestled with: holding this anger back and wondering why it has not grown as old and tired as the rest of me.

It typically is something that happens inside of me, but is seldom expressed. However, knowing this inner struggle, I can understand why others can explode unexpectedly. I can even forgive them their momentary loss of control.

It is those who methodically plan an outrage against another that concerns me most. That means having given in to the Dark Side. It doesn't happen all at once, so there were many chances for the more reasonable parts of one's psyche to intervene.

I take walks with my angry self. His list of what is wrong in the world is never ending. But I know his deepest hurt, his many fears, and so we agree it's okay for him not to lead the way. He is, however, ever vigilant, always ready to charge.

It's my own weakness that fuels him. I apologize. Explain why a weapon won't solve any problems.

He counters that I should lift weights, bulk up.

I take him to the mirror and gently remind him how this body could never be that, suggesting there are other ways.

"Kung Fu!" he exclaims. Then, thinking how to better appeal to my sensibilities (for which I am truly grateful), he adds, "Or Aikido."

Together, we reminisce on all that we have already tried. I bring out the wooden "mokgum" sword from our Haidong Gumdo training. He only sees the Holy Warrior he wanted us to be.

I rub the arthritic joints we aggravated through all those hours of practice.

Years ago, when driving a truck that required much moving of boxes of tile and bags of sand and cement, I learned the trick of motivating him to do the heavy lifting. He never tired but would mellow with exertion. We got along just fine back then, working together like that.

Memoir

Life reduced

with age and strife,

a past redacted

by neglect and forget

I have an old hat

worn only when alone,

a reminder of precious wear,

of someone spry, present, and unconcerned,

I once imagined myself . . .

might become.

It's not so much I must hide him

as noting how the best things happen

when he's mistaken for someone else

or seen not at all.

Unlike my shoes,

which always tell the truth.

Some things take a lifetime to learn,

like how to keep a frugal yet boundless kitchen,

or retrieve and utilize a worthwhile dream,

or how not to flounder without the salvation

of the grand purpose you once promised yourself.

Oh sure, along the way, the clarity of passion had to be exchanged

for the softer desires of peace and the predictable.

The last time I hit a man was during a Chicago snowstorm

well over 30 years ago.

The bastard tried to take the parking spot

I had just shoveled free of snow.

It was a comic fight:

two heavily bundled men with gloves sinking

into each other's down-filled jackets.

Unexpected outbursts like that convinced me

never to own a weapon,

steered me towards using words

to carve my way through canyons,

Birthed the more gentle man

underneath an old hat

wanting only to move like water,

felt as a breeze unseen.