A Funeral Poem I Read for Daddy

He adopted his new wife’s son, a poem was required.

Cold, windy,
Step quietly along the hedgerow
And the dog’s fur is matted with cuckle-burrs.
She raises her head, bobbing,
Sniffs the wind . . . . wait . . . . . there’s something:
“Hold,” he says. “Hold.”
She sneaks along, trying.
“Hold.” Then, the sound . . .
Wings beat, dog barks and
Shotgun BLAT BLAT BLAT
“Hey, Big Boy, did you see that
Three on the rise . . . .
I got three on the rise!
Have you ever seen any shooting like that?”
“No, Daddy, I haven’t.”

And it’s the truth.

Sunday 2 am. Mama on the phone:
“Son, it’s your Daddy. They’ve . . .
I don’t know. . . . I don’t know . . .
Look, I’ll call you,
Yes, just wait for now. . . when I know
Yes, son, I’ll call you.”
Then an uncle calls and an aunt . . .
They’re going over, and I’ll ride with them. Aunt comes
Gets me and we’re on our way stop by the
Uncle’s house a lot of lights in the yard and
They’re standing there, waiting, and
“Son, he’s gone.”
“Don’t tell me that, Uncle” “I have to, son, I’m sorry.”
And, of course, I’m too late, again.

Unlike most, you didn’t have to be my father,
But you were, by choice.
You gave me your name, by choice,
And I’ve given it to my son. Another line started,
Not by force of nature or chance encounter
But as a gift.
As I write this on a sunny March afternoon,
I reflect back to my college graduation and your pride
And how you came with pig cookers stacked in your truck
And put on a party unseen before at St. Andrews.
They still talk about it as the only one like it before or since.
You did it a few years later for my brother at his school.
And I think about how we argued and how we always got over it
And the breakfasts the three of us shared.
And how I loved to cook for you when Mama was out of town
And how nothing could be as good as you acted like it was
Except tomatoes, a proper tomato, fresh and sliced raw
And how every year is the year Earnhardt wins number 8
And how, right now, in Jones County, there’s a field waiting
For your wishes to be fulfilled
And it knows it’s right, as I do,
And the quail, nesting, await your ashes,
Feeling somewhat more relaxed.