In Memory of Andrew Hope III

Before airport security

was like it is today,

my brother Andy and I

used to run up the tunnel

as my father's plane landed,

jumping up and down,

as we begged for whatever

gift he brought us.

Usually it was a bag of peanuts,

and we smiled as he picked us up.

I never knew what he did for work,

until he started calling me at my office,

talking through ideas and new projects.

I was happy to give him money

when he was looking for a job.

When I just started learning

how to live on my own,

my friend Chris was helping me

move my stuff to a new apartment.

He gave Chris my mother's book of poems,

and he said,

"If anyone screws with you,

fuck 'em."

And he lifted his middle finger.

"Fuck 'em."

And I learned something

about standing on my own.

My father hardly ever looked up,

and even his friends rarely

looked him in the eyes.

But sometimes

he would play Van Morrison

or Lucinda Williams

in his living room

and I would see his soul wake up.

I would see his heart making confessions.

I would see the rocks on his shoulders

melt and float with the music.

I share some of my father's burdens.

The duty to his people,

as old as dust,

as heavy as grindstone,

the straight line that he walked

through the killer whale's mouth.

And some of those burdens

don't have names yet.

They drift in the room like smoke,

drifting to the edge

where my father stood.