Father’s Day (Poem)

I never knew my father as anything other,

though from stories I heard he lived a life

rich with travel, music, art, and other dangerous things.

for years I carried with me my sole testimony to this,

a charcoal self-portrait he had drawn of himself as a young man,

the paper creased and worn from years of being folded

before it passed into my hands, and I chose to keep it close

in the left back pocket of my jeans just like he had done.

one day it simply fell apart, and I went to a bridge

and scattered the tattered remnants over the water.

I doubt he ever traveled in this area but think he would have approved.