My father liked to point out
the mechanics of things.
On planes, we would always sit
near the wings so we could watch
as the pilot maneuvered the
flaps, opening wide to create
resistance the shutting them tight
for a smooth glide. In airports as
planes landed, we looked out
for the landing gear - those wheels
the pilot released just as the plane
touched down. When I was
learning how to drive, he showed
me the car engine, made me see
how it moved as he hit the gas or
shifted gears. He made me
change a tire, taught
me how to check the oil.
The heart is an engine and a man is
an engine and a father is an
engine. My father showed me
the mechanics of love. Most nights
till I was twelve, he would tuck
me and my sister in bed,
brush our hair out of our eyes,
kiss us on our foreheads.
I learned what tenderness
looked like on the face of man
when my father kissed me
goodnight. And later, much
later, my father taught me
forgiveness. When I broke his
heart, with my angst and my
words. When he broke my
heart with his struggles
and failings. The heart,
the eyes, the tender eyes,
the forehead kisses. My father
taught me the mechanics of
love. He took me under the hood
so I would know. So I could see.
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