Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Dan/ 2001

For most of my life.
And until the day you died. You called me Super.
“Super, It’s your Old Man calling.”
“Super, take the High Road.”
“Super, We think you’ve gone off the deep end.”

Did you, over the years—or in the end,
ever think about the origin of that nickname?
That day it all started? Did you block it out? Forget?


The Little Fat Boy. "SuperGut."

I remember.

Your word (vicious), your son, your choice.

(SuperGut); shortened over time to just plain old "Super."

Harmless. You shortened it.
I grew out of it, and occasionally you even called me
But "Super" stuck. I still hear it tripping off your tongue.

“Super, this is your Old Man.”
Sometimes Mike or Tom will call me "Super."
It feels good, and they don’t
remember how it all started.

Me in the kitchen. 12 years old.
I wanted to join the Navy. The Navy!

“Good -- you’re too fucking fat to ever be in the Marine Corps, so go ahead.
Join the Navy. Maybe they’ll take you.”

I hated you for that.
On that day—I wished you dead a thousand times over.

And for so long—I wanted you in a box. Gone.

The years, however, replaced my revulsion for the name
with the deepest longing.

How I crave just one more time—your voice.

“Super, This is your Old Man.”