He stood by the bar, elbows a-leaning,

foot on the brass rail, beer in his hand.

“Have a good day?” said the man chewing peanuts.

“Yes good, had a great Daughters Day.”

 

“What’s a daughters day mate?”

Said the man with the peanuts.

Carl was his name, if my memory serves.

“A day with my daughter, once a month by agreement

and I live through the rest just for those happy hours.

What a mess we can make in a few thoughtless minutes.

What remorse we can suffer, as years hurry by

but at least for a short time, a few precious hours

my child of love is entirely mine.”

 

So we start with a breakfast of pancakes and syrup.

Then pack up the car to go somewhere new,

perhaps to go fishing or climb up a mountain,

to sit at it’s summit and swallow the view.

Or sometimes we go shopping,

though I’m not much for shopping

but for her I would even do this through a day.

Just to watch her a browsing and picking things over.

Is a treat for my soul, so lonely and dry.

 

No today was just special.

It wasn’t the joy of places or vistas.

It wasn’t the excitement, material things.

It was just as we parted; hands held as we waited

for the car that would come to take her away.

She turned slowly towards me and taking my other hand,

looked up with those gray eyes so clear.

Then she said very softly, like the whisper of bird’s wings.

“My own Dad I love you. I love you, my father so dear.”

 

 

David Garlick, Victoria, September 1994