Tracing His Name in the Sand

He worked from dawn until night
in a white tee shirt not a white collar.
My father.
A man of few words.
If ever he held a crumb in his rugged hands
it was only for a moment,
for without hesitation he would give
what was his, to someone else.
His footsteps, as heavy as his silence,
creating a paradox,
like a scream within a whisper.
His lack of words merely a camouflage
for compassion and his keen sense
of the needs of others.
Especially mine, for I was his little girl.

On a wintry March evening,
before leaving on vacation
he left me with some things
to take care of while he was gone.
Made me repeat over and over and over
the combination to the safety deposit box.
After the drill I knew I’d remember it,
so I didn’t bother
to write down the numbers.
He’d be returning
from his Caribbean oasis
in a few weeks,
choosing fresh air and sun
over another year of chemo.  

We never spoke about it
but I understood his decision to go,  
for a bond existed between this man
who rarely spoke and the child who was accustomed to his heavy footsteps.
Unspoken words, the norm.
And though Death was also mute,
it did not hide.
Triumphantly it stood
on the tropic shoreline
adorned with palm trees,
tracing my father’s name in the sand,
awaiting his arrival.

81-67–15 or was it 61-87-15?
I wish I would had
written down the numbers.