Beyond Measure
Updated: Aug 4, 2020
I held his prosthesis like a gun
Not then knowing the connection
Between casualties of war
And consequential medical advances,
Nor aware of the irony
Of turning a device designed
To make a part of a human
That was missing, whole,
Back into a weapon of mass destruction,
Being oblivious to such nuances
At the tender age of ten.
My father had one leg
(practically speaking). The other
Measured an eighth of his good one
A “congenital defect” that
Precluded him from engaging
In the war which followed
“The war to end all wars”
In which I daily engaged
In my imagination, weaponizing
Whatever was readily available.
In his closet standing,
Like soldiers awaiting inspection,
Were all his “prior legs” in case
The new ones didn’t measure up
To the old (they rarely did).
Being precocious beyond measure,
Myself not affected by his defect—
Society’s word, never his—
I’d run into his walk-in,
Gleefully spending hours
Shooting them like bazookas,
Pretending they were muskets,
Or rifles from the Wild West,
Using them as make shift golf clubs,
Or taking one out to the yard
And using it as a tee-ball stand
Long before they were invented,
Or, filling them with ill gotten goodies
Which I usually forgot about
Until he literally stepped in them
When he needed to use a spare,
Sending the Three Musketeers
Into an early grave,
Launching Milky Ways
Into another galaxy,
Melting M&M’s
Not in my mouth but in its “foot”
That I had to clean
After coming clean
That it was I
Who was using his legs as arms,
As stands to bat balls,
As containers for gum and candy
In my boyish pursuit of fun,
Afoot in his closet
That was fancy full.
His leg was mostly a foot
As well as only a foot long,
His subsequent limp, noticeable,
Yet only inches in measure.
His leg he never measured,
Never saw his life as deficient,
As not measuring up to others’,
As being disabled from living
A life full of wonder and joy.
Rather, he measured his good fortune,
Of family, friends, a wife, kids, a career
That, when he was a infant,
Was a pipe dream his parents
Dared not dream for him
Being told that he’d be dead
Before he reached the age of two.
Those doctors were only off
Eighty seven years, six months, three weeks and five days,
All which he spent being
Thankful, humble, charitable,
Never bitter, resentful, jealous.
Took me fifty plus years
To stop rebelling
From his example,
To stop yelling
About life’s absurdities,
Its injustices, its difficulties,
To begin to see life like he
Always did, a precious gift
We should share with others
Not a burdensome cross
To carry by oneself.
Now, instead of transforming
A device designed to heal
Into an imaginary weapon,
I hold an iPad in my hand
Like it were a baby Grand—
Not a gun, rifle or rocket launcher—
Upon which I bang out hits
Heard by few, enjoyed by fewer
But doing it for good measure
If not the sheer pleasure
Of honoring him
And his prostheses
Which made him the man
I wish to measure up to be.
7/14/2020