an email from my dad

the first part is about me, and about tad, and about all the things we tell my dad about. 

the second part is the poem that inspired him to write it. 

i love my dad.

“the god of Bodega who keeps the prices low and the nest comfortable.”

“the god of used things that put their soul to the task and will miss you in their new home”

“the god of dodgy behavior in French class that circles back around reminding you of the cost of the dodgy behavior”

“the god of bad word usage that tells you to never to title something you want folks to read “sermon”….

“the god of expensive cucumbers that can only show you the insanity of cucumber pricing by the counterfactual”

“the god of parking tickets that trades in seduction and punishment (in equal measure)”

“the god of long dreamy sleeps”

“the special god of bad tv and carbs”

“the god of unused talents in the form of shoe trees next to shoes”

“the god of powdered milk”

“the god of cheap tomatoes”

“the god of deep longing and prices out of reach at Salvation Army”

The God Who

It was the small gods we talked to

Before words, though soon enough

We forgot, and sadly, that what dawn

Or the shine of hips made the heart do

With prayer

                The god of a particular

Slow hand in the river, his friend

God of the white boats swung around it,

Gods of moderately impressive rocks,

Of spots warm where someone was just sitting

Of the deep sharp scents of shoes, of sounds

Whose direction is unclear, of silver linings:

They appreciated whatever small appreciations

Came their way and, ignored,

Were not so much vengeful

As doubtful in the early world,

Where the workload, if it can be called that,

Of their divinely inefficient bureaucracy,

Left plenty of time to enjoy the specialties

Of their fellows, god of just sitting around,

God of the nasty slider, of low-battery gleeps,

Of wine that gets better by the glass,

The god (the high god!) of too excited to sleep.

Actually, with considerable power

Over one thing, or a couple – a book maybe,

Tennis, unusual salads – but only average

At, say getting lovers or starting a car,

They were a lot  like us.  Distinctions, in fact,

Were not rigidly maintained, it being proverbally

Difficult to be sure you’re immortal

Or that you’re not.  There was intermarriage,

Bargaining, and respectful confusion (once

Language got going)

About what constituted worship

And what was just delighted

Saying the names of things,

Which persists, So as for the god

Of the squeak of clean hair,

Of your hand out of the car window

Wind-lifted, of the small shades under the hat brims

And not excluding

The banned gods of leaf-fires and tobacco,

Of and definitely including

She of the coffee-breath and fine cold hands

Who says “sit down friend and let’s see,

Let’s just see,” and certainly

My other god, he of least resistance

Who decrees what is going to happen anyway,

Who listens only to prayers that end

“Let all be as thou will’st,”  who grants

Only my wish to believe in him,

And with the possible exception only of the god of making a list

Of all the other gods, who gets distracted and forgets so many

That suddenly the universe is His and only His,

Praise them.

Richardson