For my father
I seem to be in a low-overhead room
Like a roughed-out Navy mess deck
Populated by a throng in dungarees
For my parents
The two of them, long dead, rest in photos
At opposite ends of our living room mantel
Mother at the south end, father to the north
My father, who died when I was fifteen, seemed to be in and out of my childhood and that of my two brothers. He served on the police force during the Battle of Britain, was stationed in Germany in the British Zone after the war, and later chased his dog racing track…
This title came out of a very low-key conversation I had with my brother about our mother, an issue close to our hearts as we wait for the forsythia to bloom, announcing her birthday. My brother and I have daughters and granddaughters and have…
As a kid I remember my older brother John, from my mother’s first marriage, coming to our London flat with a duffle bag stuffed with his British Army uniforms. He was returning from the Far East, wherever that was. My two brothers and I were more interested in dressing up in John’s Army…
My father, dead for more than half a century, shows up on occasion in my dreams, visions and revelries. On his recent pre-Christmas calling my father was looking down at me through an open skylight, flanked on his right side by a grey squirrel. In this dream my father seemed to possess his…
My mother’s photo resides at the north end of our living room mantle; my father’s photo resides at the south end. I did not use my U.S. Navy Navigator skills to place these portraits. The positioning was largely arbitrary with some understanding…
I was caught in a holiday traffic scrum while driving in the Hudson Valley, north of New York City. While at a red light I noticed a van to my left bearing the following advertisement: “Caskets Made with Love for your Departed Loved Ones.” From the markings this…
In the middle of the night I often wake up thinking of “last words” as the stuff of fiction and fate. Death is always a thigh-slapper, even at two in the morning. I am thinking about being at sea, reflecting on my years in the Navy and returning to the sea one last time after my death. The idea came neither…
I was leaving our flat in North London on the way to school. I was thirteen and vaguely understood that on this day my father would be going to America. He was in the bathroom shaving with the door half ajar. He caught my image in the mirror and turned while wiping shaving cream…