He worked until the day he passed.
A man his children barely knew;
His son and daughter came back home
To do whatever they could do
And out there where he’d left it last:
The old truck that he’d always had –
They sat and watched the sun go down
And traded stories of their dad
What do you say about someone
For whom to speak was rare?
Who never showed his tenderness
Or gave a sign he cared?
But in the glove compartment, there –
Three pics of long duration:
Of their two parents’ wedding day
And their, each, graduation
He’d carried with him all these years
Since they had moved away:
They realized he was proud of them
He just could never say
The sun goes down in silence as
The darkening night forbids —
But love’s last labor knows the truth:
Their father
Loved
His kids
This … oh, man.
When my mom’s dad died, someone sent her the pictures he carried in his wallet and showed anyone who cared to see, and hear him speak proudly of those pictured: my mom and her kids. She’d had no idea he’d felt much of anything for her but disappointment and disdain.
My wife’s dad was like that. I could tell he thought she hung the moon, but he never told her.