Reconciliation

My father was an athlete

And a soldier at eighteen.

He never told us anything

About the things he’d seen.

 

He worked at selling shoes,

Mostly for children, in a store,

Six days a week, a different life

From fighting in a war.

 

I tried to reconcile those halves,

Both aspects of my dad,

But snapshots with his army pals

Were all the proof I had

 

Of that early version of the man

Who never had the time

To retire and relax because

He died while in his prime.

 

He never knew his grandkids,

Had no condo in the sun,

Yet he was loved and that’s what counts

When all is said and done.

 

So Happy Birthday, Daddy!

Your four children have your smile

And I guess that’s quite enough for me

To need to reconcile.