Patrimony

When I told you the story of my father
sprawled drunk on the benches in an Athens airport
in the 70’s, I didn’t share it to impress or undress you—
it poured out in protest against all the lost fathers
in the world who made their children
grow up too hard and fast.

Your own father was the glue of your family,
though he dragged along his sprawling, silent demons.
The thread I found fascinating – you didn’t know how
to explain – how a man, so kind in his present life,
could have been so closed off from his past. I never
vocalized that, never asked the question, where was his
absent father now to measure his success against?
And it wasn’t an easy loss for you to carry either.

But hard is not the word for why no boy
should have to explain to a disapproving stewardess
that his father is harmless and will not assault
anyone in flight, just fall asleep on the plane,
eventually revert to his calm self. I figured out
the right words to soothe her when he threw up
his delirium in obnoxious orders for service, but I
shouldn’t have been forced to learn this language so early.

So I need to repeat the story,
μαλακά, σαν ανατρέηοντας
since I am often lost and a father now too.
ένα χαμηλό άδμα,.