It is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles.
~ Niccolo Machiavelli
Who cut each cord, with hands trembling, bug-eyed and misty?
Who laughs in the face of those afraid of a little projectile vomit?
Who cries a little and chokes on that throaty lump as you take the stage at every school event?
Who got a wee bit depressed when he realized that the days of you running out onto the driveway to greet him after work, arms waving, shrieking “Daddy’s home!” were over?
Who fed you Blueberry Buckle straight from the glass jar with a spoon that looked like Bugs Bunny? And snuck a few bites himself?
Who held his heart in his hand, pumping blood onto the streets for everyone to see, when you slipped away from us and it took so many empty minutes to find you?
Who loves to just sit and watch you do whatever you may be doing?
Who got bent out of shape over a potato chip and made you cry?
Who sometimes tiptoes into your room when you are fast asleep, settles on the edge of your bed, and brushes the hair off your sweaty cheek, thinking over nothing and everything as you gently breathe?
Who bitches at you about your grades and your lack of effort and only later realizing that you merely practice what you see?
Who hugs you and leans in to peck your cheek because most days that is all he’s able to offer?
Who can still kick all y’all’s butts in a wrestling match? Especially if he resorts to tickling?
Who wants to take you places and show you things? Who forgets that you have already seen and done so much?
Who sees for each of you a time in the future when you’ll look back on all this, and all that is still to come, and perhaps forgive him? When he will perhaps come to grips with that fact that you already have?
Who straddles the line that separates Failure and Father? Who wonders if that line is not drawn in shifting sand? Or maybe even a mirage of his own making?
Who desires your happiness more than anything?
Who wonders, when the room is quiet or when you are prancing and prowling about, what you’ll become?
Who dreams of bigger things for you than he ever dreamed of for himself?
Who hopes you will be doers, and not merely dreamers?
Who loves each of you so much he gasps at the thought?
Who is so very proud and honored and humbled to be your father?
Who has to go to bed now, so he can get up early and make the ice cream?
Who will be dreaming of you . . .