Dear Dad,

I want the hat you wear that smells like hay and varnish…

And that pocket handkerchief that you always had for Sunday meetings.

I want the electronic gadgets that always boggled your mind,

And that look you gave me when my baby died.

I want your green soap that you taught me how to use,

And that turkey shaped from wood that holds the toothpicks

that you twirled in your mouth and frayed the ends—

I think I’d like the toothpicks too.

I want the siphon tubes you piled on my arms till I could no longer see the sky,

And the ditchwater you flung with them—20 furrows wide.

I’ll take the tractor guard I sat on around the whole of the 40 acres…

And that time you drove the 30 miles to talk to (just to) me—

I think I’d like some music books, the Chinese dolls and paper lanterns—

the letters that you wrote from over seas, your journal, and all your pictures of me.

I’d like the beat-up traveling trunk, your chinaware and Asian rugs,

But more than they, I’ll take your iron hug…

I want the jokes you told to last forever, so I’ll take your zip-lock bags and canning jars.

I’ll also take a bit of your ingenuity, if you don’t mind—I’m losing mine.

In a box where secret treasures lie, there are a few pieces I left behind. I’ll take them too, and the pasture and all the base balls that you threw.

I’ll take the old living room on winter nights, where we sat on the hearth in a state of laze

And pieced together puzzles, or played scrabble, while music played and played.

I’ll take the long-long kitchen table filled with Thanksgiving meals,

And Amy’s proud look of “I-done-it”—I’ll take that festive atmosphere.

Mom’s spices, ½ the macramé’s, and ½ the cooking books… 

Your home-made cutting boards, and wet stones, and wok with black-black walls…

And I’d like the scent of Chinese food in my kitchen once again,

Shitake mushrooms, sesame oil, and plum paste in my fridge.

And I’ll take your shop around Christmas time—
and the curly-cues that fall from the saw

I’ll take the sawdust, and the band-aid box, and your table saw as well—

And that soft voice at the end of the phone, when you brought me back from hell…

That’s what I want—for now at least—while it’s still fresh in my mind.

And if I think of more things, then I'll drop you a few lines.

--Charlie