My father's face surprised me one morning,
peering at me from my bathroom mirror.
My joy at seeing him (dead these many years)
was tempered by a sudden knowledge of the message
he brought.
I never sought wisdom from my Dad,
but in my blundering adolescent way
found much that would return in later years
to haunt, and to guide me.
He, a quiet yet vibrant man, taught me
that sorrow and tears were never solely
the private prerogative of women:
men also wept in private anguish.
He, an undemonstrative man, showed his love
at the most unexpected times.
A sudden gift, and shy explanation
of how he thought I might like it.
He, an unlettered man, offered support,
approval for my serendipitous ways.
With hesitant words he voiced his pride
in the directions I had taken.
Seeing myself in my children's eyes,
I can only hope that the genetic gifts
I leave with them can partially repay
the legacy of my father's love.