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Dear Dad,
I can't believe how long it has been since I've seen you. I still remember that time in Atlantic City when the family went on a short vacation--I was six years old or so. I had a plastic toy rifle and left it in the back window of the car. The sun melted it so badly, the barrel almost formed a "U". When I brought it to you, almost crying, you told me you'd buy me another one, but for now, the one I had would be able to shoot around corners. We both laughed and I felt better immediately--that was the way you had with us kids.
When I had gone into the Marine Corps you drove about a thousand miles just to see my graduation. I remember when my platoon marched across the tarmac, I saw you from the corner of my eyes--you were snapping photos like your camera was a machine gun, and I recognized the look of pride on your face. I was just a young man back then, but now I'm sixty-five. It seems like only yesterday, but it was so long ago.
I was at Marine Corps Air Station in Jacksonville, Florida, spending the night in town with some buddies, when I got the call. No warning, no sympathy, just a brief message from the base Officer of the Day that you had died. "Your father is dead," he told me, "you can go home on emergency leave," he added.
After I returned from Viet Nam, you weren't there. Somehow I felt you would be, but I also knew you wouldn't. Mom was a mess, but she was strong and pulled through it.
I wish you stayed longer. You were so young and such a positive person to be around. I still remember some of your poetry even though my memory has declined over the years. I miss you, Dad.
Now I'm a father and a grandfather--you'd love the family.
Say hello to Mom and Ellen--tell them Susie and i will be there to join you all before very long--life is so short here--before you can turn around you're old and gray, and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire (that was Yeats, not me). And happy Father's Day.
Love,
Rob
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I can't believe how long it has been since I've seen you. I still remember that time in Atlantic City when the family went on a short vacation--I was six years old or so. I had a plastic toy rifle and left it in the back window of the car. The sun melted it so badly, the barrel almost formed a "U". When I brought it to you, almost crying, you told me you'd buy me another one, but for now, the one I had would be able to shoot around corners. We both laughed and I felt better immediately--that was the way you had with us kids.
When I had gone into the Marine Corps you drove about a thousand miles just to see my graduation. I remember when my platoon marched across the tarmac, I saw you from the corner of my eyes--you were snapping photos like your camera was a machine gun, and I recognized the look of pride on your face. I was just a young man back then, but now I'm sixty-five. It seems like only yesterday, but it was so long ago.
I was at Marine Corps Air Station in Jacksonville, Florida, spending the night in town with some buddies, when I got the call. No warning, no sympathy, just a brief message from the base Officer of the Day that you had died. "Your father is dead," he told me, "you can go home on emergency leave," he added.
After I returned from Viet Nam, you weren't there. Somehow I felt you would be, but I also knew you wouldn't. Mom was a mess, but she was strong and pulled through it.
I wish you stayed longer. You were so young and such a positive person to be around. I still remember some of your poetry even though my memory has declined over the years. I miss you, Dad.
Now I'm a father and a grandfather--you'd love the family.Say hello to Mom and Ellen--tell them Susie and i will be there to join you all before very long--life is so short here--before you can turn around you're old and gray, and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire (that was Yeats, not me). And happy Father's Day.
Love,
Rob
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