The Wooden Spoon

Today in a meeting a
man that looked far too
young to have a 20 year old
daughter told a story

about

being her Dad and
how much he enjoys
giving her a ride home

from work.

“She’s twenty. She
wants nothing to do
with her Dad but, it is

our time together.”

I go back to my Father.
Every hour of the day at
least.

My very first job at 15
years old. At a sleazy old
Polish restaurant called

The Wooden Spoon.

Dreary and gray, rainy
and empty. I was

a waitress that mostly
scrubbed the chair legs,

removed the gum from the
bottom of tables and
cleaned crusted ranch dressing

from the refrigerator shelves.

But I had a Dad then and he
would pick me up late at night,

shrugging when I’d tell him
how the lady didn’t pay me
for the third week in a row and

so happy that I brought him
a styrafoam gallon of leftover
soup.

It never occurred to me
that my Dad probably liked
to pick me up from work, but

today it did and when
I begin to understand
differently

what I was as being
so far from what I
felt

it is as if
his spirit
visits me for cookies.

A magnitude
of life
has happened

since I was that short haired
pop punk rock chick
in a tight hot pink coat

with a fuzzy blue cloth
star purse.

With a Dad to shrug it all
off with – left with an

endless

array
of what life was

when it was
to

realize again.

 

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