Barbara Wolf Terao

MY FATHER'S HANDS: TWO POEMS

My father, Frank L. Wolf, was a Technical Sergeant in the U.S. Army working as a radiation monitor for atomic bomb testing in 1946. Not surprisingly, his radiation exposure during that work was later deemed related to his terminal lung cancer in 2000. 

Dad's Army jacket shows a lightning insignia identifying his work with nuclear weapons, which was a source of pride for him. (When he learned more about the devastating and lingering effects of atomic bombs, he opposed them.) The striped shirt was a favorite of his, to be worn for special occasions, such as the birthday of one of us kids. I include it as more representative of his personality than the somber uniform. 

COMMENCEMENT

Six years of work

for my degree

and no party 

instead

I travel four hundred miles 

to a Minnesota hospital

stand by my father's bed

mortarboard on my head

when he opens his eyes

a puff of a laugh

makes its way through

his cancer-seared lungs

and he lifts his hands

clapping 

with all his might

which is to say 

gently

the way leaves shudder 

on an axed tree

as it meets 

the forest floor.

CARDS ON THE TABLE

His hands smelled like English Leather soap

when we played cards at the lake.

The smell of his pipe clung to his dark beard,

his broad smile

giving no hint of cancer

playing its last card

thirty years later.

I kept his striped shirt for something

physical to hang onto, for grieving.

I take it out of the closet and wear it now,

though the scent of him is gone.

What I wouldn't give to play

another round with you, Dad,

chuckling at your puns,

your warm hands on the table

across from mine.