What Dad Didn’t Teach Me

I fixed the car before heading out
Across state lines and over mountains
To that place he chose to be
Where they hate people like me.

He never taught me how to fix cars
Or even how to drive them
I did manage to work it out on my own
When he was not around.

His friends told me how he helped them all.
I recall him helping out his father’s widow
Never telling her or any other soul
Why he felt compelled to help, but I know.

I step outside to make a call,
To hear a voice from home, my choice
To say again what Dad could never voice.
On my own, I’d found the me that I was meant to be.

My life, each life, would come to be defined
By the folks that we could love
And the ways that we could love them
Before leaving them behind.

That may be the most important lesson
That Dad could not teach, that he could never learn.
I did not wish to learn to live with his regret,
To spend each day trying to forget.

I wish that he had thought to tell someone
What he wanted done with his body, now that he’s gone.
Never mind — I’ll figure this one out, too.
I always do.