The Smell Of Sawdust

This poem inspired by "Invalid Item"  , was very hard to write and is dedicated to my Daddy, Larry Edward Mims (1938-1983)

Larry and Olita (Spring 1983)

The Smell Of Sawdust

As a little child I would sit for hours,
While my Daddy would work in his workshop.
I would build bridges and tall towers,
From scraps of wood, sprinkling sawdust on top.

As a pre-teen I would sit in the shade or the sun,
Out in the cow field or in the woods behind our home.
I would read page after page of a book till done,
Or write poems in rhyme while my thoughts would roam.

As a teen my Mother needed most of my time,
While she was pregnant with my baby brother.
I had to cook and clean, not much time to rhyme,
While my teen siblings went here and yonder.

As my Mother gained her strength and my brother grew,
My Daddy taught me to drive in an old blue ford.
I continued to dream my dreams of what I would do,
While I drove looking over that trucks' dashboard.

As I grew, my Daddy's pain didn't show,
Till one day he could no longer stand.
I tried to help, as my fear started to grow,
Still he couldn't stand while holding my hand.

Rheumatoid Arthritis was what it was found out to be,
But that didn't make sense as active as he was.
As it got worse they took both legs off below the knee,
Which he didn't like, and some days I heard him cuss.

He didn't like that he needed us helping,
With his bath, to dress and even to eat.
Hands always curled in a fist, body aching,
He would try to do it himself, not be beat.

As the years went by, he only grew worse,
Us doing all we could and then doing more.
His anger would grow, God he would curse,
Blame had to go somewhere, to even the score.

As I graduated from High School, my dreams hidden,
I knew I could not go anywhere, leaving my Mother.
My Daddy stopped cussing and asking the question,
That we all ask in our pain of our heavenly Father.

As these years went by, we became closer,
And my Daddy became my very best friend.
He would talk of his youth, and of his anger,
And that was when I realized, he was a man.

Then came the time that the Doctors decided,
One of Daddy's hands had to be removed too.
Inside the disease was growing, blood had clotted,
And there was nothing else they could do.

I stayed home with my younger brother,
Kissing my Daddy and watching him go,
Not knowing that only my Mother,
Would return alone in a day or so.

She told me what her heart and eyes had seen,
After my Daddy went through the surgery.
She said that his face became very serene,
And his eyes sparkled, while hers grew teary.

She tried to hear the words he was saying,
And she leaned down closer to hear what he said,
But his hand reach up and around her, grasping,
And took the hand of something else there, instead.

My Mother knew in that moment, as time stood still,
That if she turned she would see her Maker.
She knew the hand my Daddy took on his own free will,
Was the loving hand of his Heavenly Father.

My grief and tears at the loss of my Daddy,
Turned into guilt as I was glad he was gone.
It wasn't because I didn't love him dearly,
But because I knew he was not in pain or alone.

Years have passed since I lost my Daddy that day,
And I have beautiful children now of my own.
I tell them stories, of how I would love to play,
At the feet of the Grand-Daddy they have never known.

Brenda Kay~December 31, 2002