Dad Let Go

Dad schooled them in rules

they recited like a pledge of allegiance.

He came home every day attached 
to an invisible thread. You are

a teacher, a husband, a father, a son. 
He didn’t know where or even why he was tied 
to that thing Mr. Stafford showed me, that we must follow 
if lost, befuddled, or yearning to grow beyond

the rooms of youth. In his father’s house 
there was no room for reflection. He learned in The Cave where he read 
shadows on a wall. In things that could have changed, nothing did.   
He left for the world, and they wondered what he was pursuing. 
He couldn’t explain, even to fifth grade children, it was 
I before E except after C, the thread unraveling, 
hard to see, a guide of sorts,

an anchor to clutch onto when all is gone,

my father in his forties,
watching tragedies unfold on T.V.

and in life, wearing
the smile of the disregarded,

moving away slowly

without ever knowing, 
the thread broken,

he finally let go.