The kindergarten bus
My daughter, now a lean wry young woman, tells me
This morning that on her first day of kindergarten she
Sat in the back of the bus on the way home and all the
Other kids got off in gaggles and duos but she did not
Because she didn't recognise any familiar corners. So
She sat quietly as the bus emptied. She wasn't scared,
She says. It took a while but the driver finally noticed
One last quiet child sitting in the back; the driver then
Slowly retraced the whole route, until the right corner,
Complete with worried parents, presented itself. There
Are many ways to look at this story. You could ponder
The mature calm of the child, the frantic of the parents,
The way the child was confronted by unfamiliar angles
And unknown geometries; but this morning let's salute
The driver, who understood that the quiet child was not
Quiet inside, who took the time to slowly and carefully
Help her find where where she fit, where she was home.
If we ever got to be
What we so want to be
One time years ago when I was at the end of my rope
I was standing by the fireplace at my brother's house
Explaining haltingly why I was at the end of my rope
And I started to cry and could not stop no matter how
I tried; and I tried. It's hard for a guy to cry endlessly
And helplessly. It is. Some remote part of you shouts
Man, get it together, this is totally beyond the bounds.
But I couldn't stop. My brother and his wife sat quiet.
They didn't say anything or try to calm me down. I'll
Always be grateful for that, for some reason; for what
They didn't do. After a while my brother stood up and
Reached out and just cupped his big hand on my neck.
That's all. Seems like a small gesture, doesn't it? Tiny,
Even, the sort of slight touch we bestow without much
Thinking. But it was huge to me. I suspect touch is big
All the time, bigger than we can articulate. I believe in
Fact that touch is an articulate wordless huge language.
You know what I mean — those times when words give
Up and all you can do is touch an arm or neck or cheek
Or shoulder and something is said and heard and that's
Eloquent and ancient and haunting and the best of what
We could be if we ever got to be what we so want to be.
Poem for Father's Day
No one talks about this, but every dad who ever had a son
Had and loved this moment, during which he and his boy,
About age two, stand in the woods or at the beach, or even
In God help us the bathroom, and the father says, son, first
Rule is don't wet yourself. All production is out and about.
After that you want to try for accuracy if possible, but only
Sometimes does that matter. Just as in basketball, footwork
Is key. Never pee on your own feet. Some idiot friend will
Someday tell you that you can toughen your feet by peeing
On them. This is a canard. When you are sure you are done,
Close up shop. Never leave the door open. Think of it all as
Returning water to the generous earth; we are mostly water,
And water runs through us, and we should be grateful for it
More than we generally are, even during times like this that
Seem pedestrian. But there is no such entity as a pedestrian
Moment, only moments in which we have not looked close
Enough for the huge thing hiding behind the ostensible tiny.
Questions? No? Then, son, let's zip up and get back to base.
There are many ways to be a man,
And all of them have to do with honest
Or here's a story. A man finds himself acting as the dad
Of a kid who has no real dad. It's not anything dramatic
Or colorful, he just is generous and friendly with the kid
When she hangs around with his kids, and they feed this
Kid a lot, and he listens to her problems and gives smart
Advice in a Dad tone of voice, and eventually, when she
Is ready to marry, she asks him real shyly if he will walk
Her up the aisle. He says sure yes of course I'm honoured.
So he gets ready to do that, and digs out his one good tie,
But then the prospective husband cancels everything and
Won't answer the girl's calls and she's crushed but Time
Marches on and after a few weeks people generally walk
On. But listen to this. One day the dad travels all the way
To where the man works, and he somehow walks past all
The lines of corporate defence, and he startles the guy by
Suddenly standing there saying quietly, You have to man
Up and talk to her. You don't have to marry her. But you
Sure do have to tell her if you don't love her, or you love
Someone else. Be a man. I'll wait here if you want to call
Her right now from somewhere private. Or I can go when
You promise me you'll call her today. Are we clear here?
Then he went home. I just love that story. There are many
Ways to be a man, and all of them have to do with honest.
Brian Doyle was a celebrated author, the editor of Portland Magazine at the University of Portland, and a long time contributor to Eureka Street. He died on 27 May 2017 following complications related to a cancerous brain tumour.