That my parental units showed no sign
of affection in public was a product of the era,
the stifled fifties, when married couples,
my own units included, slept in separate beds.
My existence belies that separate state.
Nonetheless, there was a discomfort
in physical display, unlike today, when juices
and viruses are spread with joyous abandon.
Even the much touted sixties were but dim flames
compared with hooking-up, which is the mainstay
of youth today. Or is that Larkin’s voice I imitate?
I saw my mother attempt to kiss my father, once—
O’Hare airport, nineteen and sixty-three.
He recoiled, and that was that. But here I am,
and bravo to closed and locked bedroom doors,
though, not always locked, as I unwittingly discovered
at the tender age of six, much to my father’s fury
(my mother wore a rhapsodic smile. Go dad!) .
Had he a pistol by his bed there would be a chiseled stone
which reads: “Here lies Hanque, his timing was off.”
Their lack of affection in front of us, their offspring,
well, who knows what that meant.
But I absorbed that sense of inhibition. I can be cold.
Dad’s scowl haunts me. Spooky, shades of Hamlet.
Despite that, I know touching is one of God’s gifts.
Did He not extend his hand to earthly Adam,
thereby endowing us with life, is that not the example
to be followed, and not heroic self-containment?
As I hand my son the reins I let my hand fall on his.
I don’t care if he flinches. As I sit with my daughter
and youtube I put my arm around her shoulder.
This is good stuff, this touching. I like it. A lot.
When someone reaches out to me I reach back, and quickly.
Those outstretched arms do not come often.
I will say it plainly, again, I need to touch and be touched.
My heart beats hard. I am not my father’s son.
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(The reference to Larkin is from Philip Larkin's poem, 'High Windows.')