Fathers and Sons: Kryptonite

Kryptonite

Hey Pop, what’s the word
I don’t say
because we don’t talk that way,
and have never
aspired to the kind of relationship
where such familiarity
breeds the opposite
of contempt, but something
worse: cliché—
which is kryptonite,

and a different kind of love

is required to sustain the reversal

of all origin stories,

once sons discover everything

they’re made of and strain

to save the world—

starting with themselves—

every life a moving picture

where the bad guy is Time

and always behind the scenes,

revising the screenplay

when sons become fathers

and remake the franchise.

On Duty

Everyone’s pop is a cop: their charge to protect & serve—forever in the line of fire, ceaselessly on their beats. Even off duty they’re vigilant, prepped for action if bullets fly or a cat gets caught in a tree, or someone without a father sends up a soundless signal, etc. Each dad’s life is a dictionary of job descriptions filed under Crisis Control, their contract providing resources for humans.

My old man has finally retired and I only worry now about one thing (I no longer worry about his death; I’m too busy dreading it): that he’s enjoying the hours he earned, after decades working more days than necessary (much less expected), and telling the truth more than anyone deserved (or wanted) to hear, and mostly being accountable in his unassuming way.

I can always tell when he’s seeking distraction because he’ll call or send me another story—email replacing clipped copies and eliminating yet another thing men used to do with their hands. Other times he’ll text, and I’ll know: the industry required getting from Point A to Point B a documentary about the ways gaps in generations either crush or compel parents to stay afloat, stay in the game, remain alive.

But he has an impeccable instinct, one I’ve learned many fathers prepare their entire lives to assume, reaching out at the worst time with an inquiry or request. And each time I’m about to say Pop, remember when weekdays were a series of lists you looked at, seeing the days stretched out on unwritten calendars I’m able, thankfully, to recall he always had the time; he always made the time—just like he made me.

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This Post is republished on Medium.