The end is the beginning, is the middle, is the end

My father was always concerned with the now,

with what I’m doing with today

with not wasting time in pursuit of frivolous things.

When my first book of poetry came out,

he told me on the phone that he read my book

and he didn’t think much of it.

At the end he spoke of the beginning and the middle

as if they were today – stories of childhood and the war,

stories I’d never heard before.

His last summer, I sat next to him by a WWII tank at Soldiers Home

and he said he rather walk behind a tank

than be trapped inside a tin can waiting to be cooked.

He mentioned the Battle of the Bulge, but only in passing

and after he died an aunt said he was listed as missing in action

for six weeks during the battle, but he never spoke of it.

This morning, I ask myself, if before I die, will my timeline

get twisted up in knots and will I talk of a past

that I’ve tried to suppress and I never meant to share.

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