Holding Our Children, and Letting Them Go

This is the weekend to remember our fathers.
 
Fathers struggle. We know this. Mothers hold onto their children, sometimes too closely, sometimes for too long, but once that wet, naked child is placed in their arms they know instinctively what to do.
 
Fathers don’t. We have to learn this stuff. We’re not so comfortable holding our children. “Madonna and child” is a universal icon. Imagine “Signore and Child.” You can’t. So we fathers have to learn how to hold our kids in ways that feel right. Reminds me of a splendid little poem I read about a girl remembering her father teaching her to ride a bicycle. Running beside some Schwinn, a hand on the rear fender, that’s how fathers like to hold their children. We can do that pretty well, maybe even better than mothers. Holding while running, moving, striving—fathers do that on soccer fields and baseball diamonds, on March hills flying a kite.
 
So here’s that poem. About holding on, and letting go.
 
Happy Father’s Day.

 
 
Not Forgotten
by Sheila Packa

I learned to ride

the two wheel bicycle

with my father.

He oiled the chain

clothes-pinned playing cards

to the spokes, put on the basket

to carry my lunch.

By his side, I learned balance

and took on speed

centered behind the wide

handlebars, my hands
on the white grips

my feet pedaling.
One moment he was

holding me up
and the next moment

although I didn’t know it

he had let go.

When I wobbled, suddenly

afraid, he yelled keep going—

keep going!

Beneath the trees in the driveway

the distance increasing between us

I eventually rode until he was out of sight.

I counted on him.

 


That he could hold me was a given

that he could release me was a gift.