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Frank P Whyte

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Books by Frank P Whyte
  The Money Tree
by Frank P Whyte
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Rated "G" by the Author.

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For my daughter, Lindsay, who now has a daughter of her own.

When you were seventeen,
And the leaves turned green,
On the money tree at Grandma's house,
The space between us
Began to grow,
And it was my way,
To let you know,
That Daddy was still by your side.

A giant Oak
On the edge of the grove,
A tattered pack,
So you would know,
That I was close,
And that I still cared.

Your childhood,
Nearly at an end,
It wasn't a time
For us to pretend,
That my role was the same as it had been.

Divorce had claimed
The family enclave,
And I had moved on down the road.
You had dances, and games,
And you were nurturing a flame,
With that cute young man from the school.

For me, everything had changed,
Where I lived,
And all the faces and names,
Of those who I chose to call friend.
We spoke on the phone,
And we stole time alone,
And you tried to satisfy two masters.

The days went by,
And no matter how hard we tried,
Time together came along much less often.
Your mother said this,
And I said that,
And nothing I said could soften
The pain that we felt in our souls.

There was little I could do that would soothe you.
There was less that I could do
That would prove to you,
That a father's love never dies.

My feelings for you are substantial,
Your mother said my contribution
Was financial,
And at the time, it would have been hard to believe something else.

And so each day I walked to the grove,
Often in the rain, the sleet, or the snow.
I would find the Oak and the rope in the back,
Free the knot, and lower the pack,
And I would know if you had been there.

Along with the money,
There were also the notes,
That carried the love,
Which we silently spoke,
Through a fanny pack that hung from a tree.

I heard from you the other day,
Portland, Oregon,
So far away.
You're doing fine
And the job is great,
Still thinking of college,
It's never too late.
You went to the mountains,
And the ocean's not far,
You love your apartment,
And you bought a new car.

But here in Ohio,
The winds blow cold.
It's dark and it's rainy,
And I'm growing old,
And I have to say that I miss my girl.

So I put on my coat,
And I sought out the Oak,
And a tear fell softly from my eye.
The pack is still there,
So high in the tree,
The rope worn and tattered,
But it reminds me of thee,
And of those little things that we do,
In the name of love.


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