Going

The pure, soulful cry

Of my tiny son as his plaintive face

Looks into mine

Through his tears,

Mouth wide open,

Tiny chin trembling,

Arms stretching to the door

Trying to reach his dad,

Wondering why his favorite playmate

Can’t stay home all day.

Why does Dad have to go?

He stares out the door as long

As I will let him—hoping Dad will come back--

And the sobs begin anew

Once I close the door

And he realizes Dad has gone to work.

The purity and innocence

Of these heart-wrenching cries,

That sometimes leave him

Writhing on the floor,

Inconsolable by my touch and voice

Melts my heart

And yet makes me smile—

My little one loves his dad.

And in the silent moments

When a sudden memory comes to me,

Brought on by a song,

A joke,

A wandering thought,

A story,

I find myself overcome

By the same heart-felt tears

As my son,

And my own face crinkles into sobs

That reach the depths of my soul

As I think how my dad missed Thanksgiving.

How he won’t be there for Christmas.

How he can’t congratulate me

For defending my prospectus,

Or laugh at a song I heard;

How he can’t answer my texts,

Or hold his grandson on his knee.

My own arms stretch out

Toward that gaping door of death

And my own infant sobs question,

Why does Dad have to go?