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Scott's Ode

by Christine Jupp about a year ago in heartbreak
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For My Father

Scott's Ode
Photo by Leslie Cross on Unsplash

I've died twice over,

leaving

fragments of once before

to reassemble.

I have toes left to stub

and a stepfather to love.

He makes hot coffee

in the morning.

It's strong

like the timber he used

to keep our awning

from collapsing.

Hot with every summer

day

He drove,

and he drove

millions of miles

to feed the

ones that kept my

mama warm,

frustrated,

whole.

He proposed

to me

as well

that Christmas

day,

in my fuzzy green

monstrosity

mom insisted on calling a

sweater.

He bought me

my first phone.

What makes a man?

He wears hats

with feathers and pins,

gray t-shirts

with Marvin the Martian.

He marries a strong woman

with conviction,

and a great passion

for her lasagna.

What makes a father?

Intention.

Limitless intention.

A father does not

leave

even when Mama does.

He wears my coats

and takes a bite out

of all my sandwiches

the same way

I always bite his.

He takes us to

Mount Rushmore

and we learn

there grandeur is hype

meant to sell souvenirs.

A father lives in a teepee

when you meet him.

Look for teepees.

That's where dads live.

You'll have to coax them out

with dirty martinis and

Jean Luke Picard.

You'll watch mom do the

impossible.

She falls in love

with a teenage spark

and mischievous joy.

She grows into herself

with him. You will watch them

interlace.

A textile wonder.

All gold and God.

They will raise gardens

and spirits

and small fluffy dogs.

They will teach you

what true love understands

about itself.

They make dinners

comprised of magic

and dishes

of reckless abandon.

A father and a mother

make plans for

always,

eternity.

When mama breaths out

and rises relief

from her chest,

a father

stays.

His tears know yours.

"It's me and you now, Baby."

He says.

He holds me strong,

and we stride along

on that path that

began with a

teepee.

heartbreak

About the author

Christine Jupp

I call Portland my home, even though I don't see it often.

Mostly poetry.

Some prose and short stories.

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