I have but few memories of my father.
He died when I was young.
I guess most are memories of others
I know I do have some.
Others remember his willingness to help
Those who needed a hand.
I remember him playing a fiddle,
On a stage, in a country band.
Others remember him as very kind,
And a gentle man, but I
Remember him as strong.
He could do anything but fly
I’ve always tried to live my life
As I imagined he would have.
To be decent and kind,
Someone others would love.
Someone strong and tough,
Like a rock to those who
Needed a little help
So they could make it through.
I know now I am a lot like him.
I’m young and ill–don’t have long.
Afraid though I may be,
For others I’ll still be strong.
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