Patterns
Of all the fathers I recall,
mine had to be the best of all.
I loved to feel his hands on mine
when we washed up at supper time,
and later, when we went upstairs,
I wanted him to hear my prayers.
He was the one to dim the light
when I had said my last good night.
And mother – being special, too –
quite understood my point of view.
She knew that time brings changes and
would, one day, disengage my hand
from his, so I could then be free
to search for someone just for me.
My choice (I know it made her glad)
turned out to be a lot like Dad.
— Jean S. Platt