Typewriter Series #446 by Tyler Knott Gregson
*Happy Father’s Day Daddy-O, and to all the amazing fathers out there. Thank you for what you do, what you are, and for the teaching all of us how to be the men we are, or are becoming.*
Text for Tired Eyes:
This isn’t and ode because men are raised to be strong and silent
and do things without the need for praise and remembrance,
for recognition and for tips of the cap or nods of the head.
This is, instead, a quiet and sincere whisper to the stoic and proud faces
we’ve seen staring back at us with absolute and unrelenting wonder since we learned
that we don’t need to learn to breathe.
This is to the fathers.
This is to the ones who watch and let tears fall no matter how long ago they vowed
that crying just isn’t for them when we first open our eyes.
This is to the opening of their hearts and the softening of those red walls
that fought so long to be as strong as possible. This is to the hands that are too big
for the bodies that are too little and the awkward way they struggle
to keep a hand behind our necks. To the “Just support the head” that trickles
down their eardrums and lodges itself like a mantra in their terrified minds.
This is to the fathers.
To the ones that adopt the silly voices and throw themselves into folly for the chance,
the fleeting chance at a smile on their children’s lips. This is to the stories
they tell and the characters they invent and the quick hands to our chubby armpits
when our feet forget to be feet and turn upside down yet again.
This is to the fathers.
To the nurturing that comes without being taught and transforms the man into a real man
for the first time. To the world-shaking realization that real strength
lives in vulnerability and stoicism doesn’t fit quite as well as unharnessed passion
and the colors of a heart worn on a sleeve. This is to the smell of freshly cut grass
and the leather of a new baseball glove, the cologne just applied for the airport
and the way it rubs off on you when work and life must pull them away. Away for minutes
or hours, days or weeks, weeks or even months and the way that your entire face lights up
when they come home again. This is to the road trips and the discipline no kid wants
but my goodness we all need. To the shaping of a new man out of the mistakes
and life lessons, the pitfalls and the glorious victories of the older man.
This is to the fathers.
To the fumbling through ingredients and the disastrous results when left to their
own culinary devices. To the attempt, to the attempt my friends because
it’s in the trying that’s the loving and it’s in the failure that’s the triumph.
This is to the ready willing and able to fight for you even if you’re wrong and even if
they know it. This is to the early morning wake up and the dress in clothes that are too tight
to sit in offices that are too small and drive in traffic that is too thick
and eat a lunch that is too greasy only to work too many more hours
to finally come home again.
This is to the fathers.
To the connection that began 9 months later for them than for the mothers but sped
itself to catch up the instant our first scream threatened to faint them to the floor.
This is to the way their smile crawls across their face with pride when we,
for all of those moments, remind them of that day. This is to the quiet confidence
and lifetime of lesson they cannot help but give.
This is to the fathers.
