When I was younger,
I would think
I don’t learn neat things from you
like my friends from their dads.
I didn’t learn to hunt, ride a snowmobile, or fix a car.
I wondered how you knew about fixing things around the house.
How was I going to remember it all?
Why didn’t you know how to fix a car, or hunt?
How I wished you did.
I don’t like to hunt, ride snowmobiles or fix up cars.
I like to build porches,
talk about landscaping,
how to unclog pipes.
You let me to learn from my mistakes,
to find my way,
even when I didn’t listen
(I learned my stubbornness from you too).
I have two boys of my own.
You’d be eighty-one this year,
but you’ve been gone for nine.
I miss talking to you.
But you’re still teaching me.