she goes not abroad in search of old man eloquent
when i was a young girl my father told me of a man he knew
that spoke in riddles and twisted words, who bled
coffee and snorted cocaine in the summertime breeze.
i never understood the need for the stories of this man fighting
off bears stark-naked in the woods, climbing decaying trees
to suffer the silence of a life lost in the heat, as if he knew.
we never spoke much beyond those tales, and after i left home,
i didn't see my father much - but the stories of this man stuck
with me until the night i met the man myself, hidden in hopes.
the man had told me he knew my father in ways most others
did not, to me this meant that the man was delusional, because
my father was transparent: glass after being cleaned.
then we began to speak more, meeting at the college's campus,
and he would buy me a cup of coffee - three creams and two
sugars, just like my dad liked it. i never cared for the stuff.
the stories this man - old and graying, much like the trees he
climbed - told me of my father were even more fantastical than
the ones i heard of the man sitting before me.
my father fought in the war, he fought beside the greatest
generals and soldiers mankind had to offer, he danced on
the edges of people's minds with the grace of an elephant.
he saved lives and took them, he spoke with leaders of
foreign nations and shook their hands, ate dinner lunch and
sometimes breakfast with the prettier ones.
but most important of all his deeds, this man told me, was
that my father never once regretted any of it, and said he'd
do it again if he had the chance. i could understand that.
i couldn't grasp the concept of this man knowing my father,
especially to the extent he said he did, so i asked him a
series of questions that eventually led to a revealing answer.
this man was my father's childhood friend, and told me that
they had went their separate ways once the war ended, but
he kept tabs on my father, from the tree tops.
we didn't know that we had talked all day, and the campus
was dark, we guessed it must have been three in the A.M
because we both felt a cold chill that was not quite natural.
like he and my father, we parted ways, but i still held the
cup of coffee he bought me (my hands were aching) and
saw the man's back as he disappeared into the dim dark.
i went to go see my father after that, and he told me more
stories, without so much as a greeting or missing a beat
since that day so long ago. it was fine, i missed his smile.
in a way, i supposed he missed mine too, because when
he finished he placed his hands on my cheeks and began to
sob quietly as if he missed his daughter even though i didn't.
i went back home and fell asleep to the sound of downpour,
jazz, and coffee brewing. i couldn't stop thinking of the last
thing that man said to me, stuttering breaths and all.
he had told me to treat my father with the kindness of god,
and to see him not as a father, but a man who liked to sit
in the rain and watch the clouds go by.
i responded with countless reasons as to why i couldn't, and
that man, that old, graying man, simply laughed and told me
i was more like my father than i realized.
when i woke up in the morning, the sun was shining, the
coffee finished, and i ended up being late for work, never
once giving my father anything more than a second thought.
