Waiting on his Words by sydney baxter

The first time my dad took credit for his poetry in public was a tribute to his mother at her funeral. He masterfully articulated that her hands, now tired, bent and broken, were solemn evidence of a venerable life, dedicated to serving, lifting, and loving others. I never knew his words could be so eloquent and kind. I envied that he held her in such high esteem. Just a few weeks later, at my wedding, in his father’s tribute to the bride, the contrast was palpable and cold. It morphed into a mumbling apology to the groom. A penance that he couldn’t make me into someone worth taking off his hands. We have hardly spoken since that day, so when cancer came for him, as it inevitably does in our family, I yearned to salvage our 

relationship. I made plans to visit, but I was asked to stay away because my very presence ruined his cancer experience. During that time, he turned completely to his poetry. He poured his soul into it. Just a few days before his frail body finally gave out, he gathered the family and opened a box of hardbound books, one for each of us. “These are my poems,” he said. “Don’t read them until I’m gone. I wrote one for everyone I care about.” Waiting for his poems meant waiting for him to die, but it was still like waiting for a lifetime of Christmases. Finally, I would have his words of kindness that I had ached for my entire life. I imagined him reading his poem for me, weeping with relief that he did actually love me, and it broke the fall of a lifetime of disappointment.
After the funeral, we gathered and opened his book like scripture. Each poem bore the name of the person it was written for. We were in awe of the tender care put into each poem. It was a lifetime tribute to his family, friends, coworkers, and even cherished pets. The room filled with laughter and tears, the post-funeral glow of raw emotion, unguarded, and a deviation from the family’s typical avoidance of feelings. And then, with the last stanza read, Mom closed the book, and everyone reflected on their poems. It should have been such a tender moment for me, too, but I felt an icy dread slip over me. My poem wasn’t there, and no one else had even noticed. Later, with everyone asleep, I snuck through the darkened house and I thumbed through the book. Hungrily, I searched for what I knew in my heart wasn't there, a poem for me. Could two pages have stuck together? He had been too deliberate and pedantic to do something silly like forget about me. As I slammed the book shut, it dawned on me that he had written me a poem after all. Not one written in ink, but in silence.

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​Sydney Baxter grew up in southern Alberta, not far from the Rockies, and has called Tofield home for the past fifteen years. She is thrilled to be joining the Writers’ Guild of Alberta as the new Director of WordsWorth. With a background as a library manager and youth programmer, Sydney is passionate about creating spaces where young people can explore their creativity and feel a sense of belonging. She is also a writer of fiction, from picture books and middle-grade stories to romantic comedies.