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August - September, 2004 |
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My father was born in Glasgow, Scotland, and
came to this country as a baby in his mother’s arms. Life was hard for them, as immigrants in a new country.
He was not an educated man and had, in fact, dropped out of high
school to go to work. Even
before that, when he was only eleven years old, he ran away from home, down
to the docks in St. George, with a youthful plan in mind to join a ship and
sail away in his dreams of adventure. He
even got a tattoo on his arm, a shield with his initials and the date “JEB
1918”. I remember that
tattoo, as it was stretched and faded by the time he was the adult who was
my father. But his mother found
him, soundly boxed his ears, and dragged him back to finish out his
childhood at home.
As
a young man he gained his acceptance and his joy on the basketball court.
He played for what was then referred to as the industrial leagues on
Staten Island and made somewhat of a name for himself as an outstanding
player.
He was ambidextrous and could shoot skillfully with either hand.
I still have the scrapbook where my mother saved the newspaper
clippings that chronicled his career. During
World War II my father joined the Navy and saw action in the South Pacific,
realizing his dream from youth to sail away across the seas. He
left behind his twin babies, returning when they were two years old.
He carried their picture screwed to his rifle, a talisman of hope and
prayer to calm the fear and anguish that chilled his heart in the midst of
battle. My
father died when we were still in high school.
Some of you may remember that loss, as it affected not only our
family, but our friends and neighbors as well.
Although that was so long ago, my father’s words and wisdom have
always stayed with me, as a whisper in my ear or an echo from the past.
For him, for all he left as legacy to me, I dedicate this poem. |
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My
Father’s Eyes |
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I
look into my father’s eyes And
see the person Who
I am All
that he bequeathed to me The
messages he sends Across
the ages Line
to line of blood and heirs Settled
in a part of me I
cannot see Until
I look Into
my father’s eyes.
Mirrored
in his depths of blue I
see the distant Highlands Where
long ago his ancestors Roamed
the moors In
search of home Wandering
through heathered fields As
native Scots Proud,
true Honest
in their word.
I
see the busy city Where
once they labored long Glasgow His
place of birth Factories
belch gusts of fume The
hard-earned wages Food
and hearth A
family to raise Amidst
the economic strife That
plagued the island’s poor.
Reflections
of the ocean With
endless waves of foam In
crossing to a New World Unknown,
foreign Another
life of hardship A
wee lad in his mother’s arms Sailing
through the Harbor Where
stands the mighty Statue Welcoming
Promising For those whose courage guides.
I
look into my father’s eyes And
see a young man’s joy Running
with the wind of youth Across
a court With
ball in hand Shooting
high from left or right The
echoes of a cheering crowd Pulsing
heartbeats Speak
to me Find
your gift, he whispers low, Then
make it yours for life.
Reflected
in his endless pools Two
babies cry The
sounds of love A
father’s pride for what he’s brought Across
the generations To
nestle in his cradled arms Gentle
hands Worn
rough from work Made soft with children’s touch.
And
when at War In
hostile lands He
fixed a tiny photo To
his gun Reminding
him of family Of
home Of
all in life worth saving Returning
safely to their breast Fear
not, he says, When
fear yields pain Remember where there’s love.
I
look into my father’s eyes For
comfort in my stress I
peer through tears That
cloud my sight And
see the steel that colors his That
solid shade of blue Be
strong, my child, He
coaxes me, Forget
not whence you came You
are mine and I am you And never will you fall.
I
carry on the messages My
father left to me Passed
down from one to others In
legacy of family And
now from me to mine Daughter Grandson And ages yet to be.
For
all that he has given me I
seek my solace And
my strength My
joy and laughter Deepest
love Ever
after Ever
true When
I look into My father’s eyes.
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| Content Copyright 2002, 2003, 2004 Florence Bothwell Cosby. All rights reserved. Published with permission. |
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