My father cries

My father is black digital alarm clock with white numbers

My father is a worn leather wallet with my baby pictures in the back

And the empty brand new wallet that sits in the drawer for years that I bought him for Father's Day but he never used because there wasn't a place for pictures in the back. 

He is plaid shorts and band t-shirts that don't match, stained and holey jeans, and a nice business suit with a fancy tie.

His hands are the deck he built and stained all by himself. 

My father is a suitcase and a briefcase

but not in a bad way.

He is the man whose lips have never tasted a curse word in front of his children.

My father is business shoes that he has worn for years, black leather with black laces. 

I would compare him to a tree or a skyscraper but my father is above those types of cliches. 

My father is a calm voice,

A patient tone,

A middle name when he's lost both.

My father is a black digital alarm clock with white numbers.

He is sturdy, practical, and the long minute hand speaks of his height.

Something I didn't receive. 

He is constant and unwavering.

But my father cries. 

Not often.

But he does.

I've seen my father cry a total of four times.

And every time I am struck with he foreign feeling of seeing my alarm clock stop for a moment. 

The first time, when the second woman he ever loved entered an airport and moved away.

The second, when he packed more than a suitcase and explained to his children what relocation meant.

The third, when the second woman he ever loved became the only woman. When she floated down the aisle like pure happiness and love elevate your steps and alleviate gravity.

The final, when my sobs drug from my chest like a fishing hook was lodged in my ribcage. And the line was reeled reeled reeled without release.

My father cried as he held his 

Colored pen

Stacked notebooks

Loud radio

Dirty room

30 pair of shoes

Broken clock

Unaware of time

daughter.

And cried because he was so proud of her.

He was so proud that even though the weight of depression was heavy her feet still walked the high road.

And I never loved my father who cries more than when he held his closet crying daughter.