Sweet

I can picture him

at Marshalls or Target, 

maybe even Restoration Hardware, 

looking at the pillow and the throw, 

wondering if my brother and sister-in-law

would like them.  Wondering if they would match 

their furniture as well as 

he could imagine them matching.

I can picture him

pulling out the charge card, excited. 

Chatting with the cashier. 

Then penning the note, 

putting the items in the big bag, 

covering it with tissue paper. 

I can picture him

thinking of them today

opening the present, 

his present to them 

on their anniversary. 

For some reason this makes my heart ache, 

how my father works so purposefully, 

sweetly, to gift his love. 

How he thinks and plans, 

then executes in a perfect way. 

How it's just him now, 

and how he knows we count on him 

to provide us with a double kind of devotion.

How he just wants to be seen, and known, 

maybe thanked for paying such gentle attention. 

How I can see the little boy in him, 

in his seventy-four year old face.

How he ducks his eyes just a bit

and holds out every one 

of his offerings with both hands. 

Wanting it to be just right. 

Wanting it all to be alright, 

never exactly sure 

that it always is.