.28) Father's Blessing Poem by Max Reif

1.

Every piece of clothing
felt soaked with dread as I packed.
My brother had called from St. Louis,
saying this might be the time:
”And you, my father,
there on that sad height…”

I prepared to enter
the solemn tunnel
of passage, father to son

since the time
aged Isaac placed his hand
on Jacob’s head,
thinking he was Esau.

Was some trickster
at work here, too?


2.

When I was 8,
the rope I was following
my father along
to manhood
gradually started
slipping away,
till I had no guide at all.

Later came my rebellion
and the rage
of the displeased patriarch
that his young Isaac
refused to place his head
upon a block of sacrifice
into the prison of a suit and tie

but tried to go his own way
along a bridge of passage
that was missing slats.

When the son fell
into a black abyss,
the patriarch cried
his vat of tears
till none were left.

The son found other fathers
who had the nets to scoop him up,
and as the years stretched out,
the baffled patriarch asked,
“Why these other
father figures in your life? ”

He scratched his greying head
at a son who had given up
life as he’d known it
to follow a God
no more solid
to the father than the air,
no more substantial to him
than fairies or wind.

No way to sing again,
“Sonny boy,
climb upon my knee...”

Breakfasts of reconciliation
would end with peremptory
hugs after gruff words,
resentments too alive
to stay politely buried.

3.

Entering the room,
I saw a sleeping man.
Too late? He must
have heard me walk in.
He blinked, then stared.
“Maxie’s here!
Now I can die! ”

You always were a joker, dad,
but that may not have been a joke.

I fumbled through my mind for words.
The family came, and then went out,
And we were left alone again.

“Anything you want to say? ”
I risked, not knowing
if the patriarch would bless
or snub his eldest son.

A little while earlier,
he’d said, “I’ve got to go to work! ”
and tried to pull his tubes out.
Now he looked at me
with total clarity.

“I’m proud of you, ” he said.
“I’m happy that you’re teaching.
If you can sell your writing,
you’ll have everything you want.”

I bowed my head,
received my father’s blessing—
and felt my burden lift.