Fathers

Not many songs are sung for fathers.

The world remembers kings and conquerors,
the men who stood upon balconies and waved to crowds,
the poets whose names endure,
the generals whose statues gather pigeons and rain.

But the fathers;
they rise before dawn,
when the sky is dim
and the dew still clings to the grass.

They shoulder their burdens without trumpet or applause.

They go where duty sends them:
to the factory floor,
the fishing boat,
the mine,
the office lit by pale fluorescent light,
the lonely highway stretching through darkness,
the distant city where work waits and family does not.

Many depart with a heaviness in the chest,
leaving sleeping children behind,
lingering a moment at the doorway,
memorizing small faces
who will be older when they return.

The world sees only a paycheck.
It does not see the sacrifice hidden inside it.

It does not see the father
eating a cold meal alone in a rented room,
counting the days until he may come home.

It does not see him
standing in the rain,
enduring the insults of angry men,
bearing the weight of impossible expectations,
swallowing his fears because others depend upon him.

He is expected to be strong.
And so he is.
He is expected to endure.
And so he does.

The years carve furrows in his brow.
His back stiffens.
His hands become roughened and scarred.
Little by little he spends himself
like a candle burning low in a dark room.

And often no one notices.
For love, in a father,
is seldom spoken.

It appears as mortgage payments.
As repaired fences.
As overtime shifts.
As calloused hands.
As missed meals.
As worries carried silently.

His affection is hidden
inside the thousand burdens he chooses to bear.

Many fathers know heartbreak.
They miss birthdays.
They miss first steps.
They miss moments that can never be reclaimed.

Some return home carrying grief
for losses they could not prevent,
sorrows that arrived while they were away,
wounds that no labor could mend.

Yet still they rise the next morning.
Still they put on their boots.
Still they shoulder the yoke.
For duty is their covenant.

Not because they are unfeeling,
but because they feel deeply
and refuse to abandon those entrusted to their care.

These are the fathers,
the salt of the earth,
the quiet pillars beneath the roof,
the watchmen who stand their posts through the long night.

Their names may never be written in books.
No crowds will cheer their passing.
Yet whole generations stand upon the foundation they laid.

Children flourish in the shelter they built.
Families prosper because they endured.
And when at last their labor is finished,
when their tools are set down
and their weary hands grow still,

Let it be said of them:
Here was a faithful man.
He worked by the sweat of his brow.
He kept his word.
He bore his burden.
He loved his family more than himself.
And because he stood firm,
His family was able to stand.