Poem

My 90-year-old Grandmother commented
on a poem that I dedicated to my father-

She wrote,
“No comment–Not sure what to say.”

Which was brilliant.

Though my father was not her son,
she felt my agony. She knows the man
her daughter had married
and loved at one point,
is now dead.

And she is not.

I found my Grandmother’s comment
to be oddly comforting.

Above my office window, stand three letters.
I placed them

As if they don’t matter and can be
moved at any moment.
to be hidden.
Or to charm.

DAD

My son picked them out while
visiting my mother in Masshachussetts.
He painted them blue and red.

It was father’s day weekend.
We dropped Gavin off at my mother’s house.
And drove away,.

while I and Megan went to my father’s celebration of life.

I was sick that weekend. I’m not sure what it was.

But I do like looking out my office window and seeing
DAD

as I look up

-M. Taggart

I will not let you down, Gavin.

Oh, it’s on!

I love Gavin. I’m blessed to be his father. I don’t understand how a parent could have the capacity to not love their child. And yet, so many don’t. And so many do. I’m in the ‘do’ category. I always knew I wanted to be a father. And bam! Here I am! And there he is. Looking rather serious and daring me to sink his battleship.

The doctor told my wife to call her when she starts to bleed. We had already lost one. I held on to Faith- Tell life it can’t. Gavin wasn’t supposed to be born. So we were told. Somehow Megan and I suffered a bit more though. Megan nearly died during an ectopic rupture when Gavin was nearly two years old.

Megan lived. Gavin lived. I’m trying my best to live.

Gavin won. In so many ways.

-Matt

Gavin is five. Not sure about his soul though.