Read Poem: The Chair, Father’s Day, by Robert L. Giron

So here we are, Dad,
your worse fear came to pass,
now you’re in the chair.

How you pushed yourself
to walk again after the fall—
we all rallied around you.

Then reality settled in:
baby steps, even if with
one leg dragging a bit.

You recall that
trek through France
watching truck after truck
drive by with bodies
of young and not so young
stacked like toothpicks.

Keep looking forward,
wanting the best.

A bit of happiness
when you saw Louie
near Luxembourg—
wondering if it
would be your last
time to see each
other but glad to hug,
praying brother Ernie
in Italy was okay.

Back to your troop,
filled with cheer,
you joined the march
to the battle—
then shrap metal hit your
back and buttocks—you
pulled through—others didn’t.

Wounded for life—
ignore the pain—
I’m strong—
yea, you are.

Then two years before
your 100th a simple turn,
a stray cane—
life changed in a flash.

A bolt of light
hit and poof,
the knight fell.

Now, you curse the chair.
Slowly, daily life has
dwindled to meals, short walks
and opening mail.

Wanting more with mind
sharp, you inhale,
exhaling exasperation,
recalling the trek
through England,
France, Luxembourg and
back to England for recovery.

They presented a Purple Heart—
you earned it.

Then seventy years
later with the help
of many, they gave
you the Bronze Star.

Proud of you, family
applauded once pinned.

Through the years, you kept
a distance, never sharing much.

Now that you’re bound
by the chair, we all have
seen the good and the bad.

The bad we’re all
capable of in despair.

Gently your body
fails, yet your mind
is sharp as glass.

A thought
flitters, captured
in space precious
as Mom all these years.

Though far and near,
we hold you
dear.

About poetryfest

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