Ghost Father

image borrowed from bing

Ghost Father

“It is a wise father that knows his own child.”

--William Shakespeare.

“It is a wise child who knows his own father.”

--Me. 

Glancing back across the entire span

of the 20th Century, having had grandparents

born in the 1890’s, I spend an busy morning

musing over the familial scope 

of my checkered ancestry.

As a kid, a boomer, first born,

independent, creative, 

I was too self-absorbed

to get to know who my mother really was;

pregnant at 15, forced

to endure an abortion

in 1943, when such a thing

was a back room nightmare,

then pregnant again at 16

with me--

she married the first soldier

who believed he was my father,

which he wasn’t;

neither he nor I fully understood this

until 1968, after my mother’s death at 39,

when it came to light

that she had never chosen to share

with anyone who my real father had been;

who must have been some serviceman,

fresh out of boot camp, a tender tryst

on a September eve in the middle

of WWII--some midnight encounter

in the wide back seat of a ’34 Buick,

with a fresh-faced boy headed into combat,

a boy who gave her only a first name--

Curt, Roy, Boyd, Ralph, Johnny, Bobby,

or Tommy; & of course he left her

with me.

Did he ever write her a letter from Italy or France,

or was it just random hormonal ardor, 

lost in the passionate hysteria

of a warm Autumn; two kids sharing

an inexplicable intimacy

for a couple of hours

that manifest itself

into a boy-child?

My realization that my mother’s first husband

was only the first of a long line 

of my stepfathers actually

explained a lot about the lack of connection

I always felt so keenly,

& to the strong connection I made

with my maternal grandfather,

who became my mentor

& father-figure. 

I spent a few decades

during my youth

fantasizing

that surely the Universe

would not leave me dangling,

cast in the thankless role of bastard--

that I would be permitted

on my own, through sheer will power,

to be out in public, some

restaurant, burlesque theater, county fair,

carnival or circus--

& right next to me,

or across from me,

I would catch the eye of some man,

& miraculously I would stare

into my father’s face, 

& we would recognize each other. 

During my 40’s, 

realizations & resignations

banished my childish naivete,

& I had to own this omission,

this voiceless faceless void.

It helped to remind myself

that many sons who knew very well

who their father was--were not protected

from abuse, belittlement, or disappointment;

knowledge of parentage does not carry with it

any form of guarantee that a father & son

will enjoy a loving relationship.

Hell, my Dad could have been

a damaged human being,

turned out to be a psycho,

or a serial killer,

or a race car driver,

or a cowboy,

or a lawyer, 

or the President of American Motors. 

Did I turn out

to be a better man

while carrying my valise

of emotional ignorance?

I guess I will have to wait

for my Life Review

in Bardo

to find out. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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