An Angel with a Hammer

Memories of my Dad are fading away,
from color to hazy black and white.
I am an child adult, selfish to admit
he is needed in my life.

In dreams, I see him in his shop,
pencil behind a sweet ear.
Sawdust peppered dark gray hair.
Old Spice and new wood perfume the air.

I was a pest, craving attention,
Daddy's girl, "Tootsie", he'd grin
tug my curls, listen to baseball
time to be free, just him and me.

He began to travel during the week.
Weekends were full for him.
He had yard work, I had dates.
Time together was slim.

I married, had a family.
An hour away but worlds apart.
Everyone else needed his touch.
Dad and I lost time for heart to heart.

He didn't whisper a single complaint.
Rather on a ladder, he crumbled to the floor.
Tan skin gone pale, sky blue eyes dull.
Surgery said prognosis poor.

Why did he wait so long?
Was he afraid, did he know?
I always wanted to really know him,
my boys needed his wisdom to grow.

I was there those last weeks,
best and worst time of our lives.
He and I did neighborly wheelchair rounds,
battling pain, loss of breath, soldier brave.

Then one day he closed his eyes,
a well earned eternal rest.
Now, if I take time, I feel Dad by my side.
How richly I have been blessed.