Donna Hilbert, our fathers ourselves

In the mid-nineties I saw a first-rate production of the musical “Carousel” in London; the interpretation was darker than the fifty’s film version and intensely moving.  It was mid-week and the row my husband and I sat in was filled with businessmen in suit and tie.  By the scene near the end when Billy returns from death for the dream ballet with his daughter, Louise, the entire row was sobbing.

In talking about it later my husband and I came to the obvious, yet still profound, conclusion that the hunger for redemption in the father child relationship is universal.  We all yearn, at least metaphorically, to dance with our fathers. For Father’s Day, I offer you the poem “Baptism,” by Barbara Eknoian, from her chapbook, Jerkumstances, published by PEARL Editions.

Baptism

 My powerful father lay in a coma.

I remembered when he said,

“I was never baptized.”

 

Back then, I thought,

someday, when you’re an old man,

somehow, we’ll get you baptized.

 

I rushed home and called

my Bible prayer leader

asking tearfully,

“I can baptize my father,

can’t I?”

 

I put some water in a small bottle

and placed it in my purse.

At his bedside, I opened the vial,

wet my fingers, and made

the Sign of the Cross

on his bald head.

 

I said, “I baptize you

In the name of the Father,

Son and Holy Spirit.”

 

I was afraid he’d open his eyes

and say, “What the hell are you doing?”

Just to be certain the baptism took,

I did it a second time.