The Gorko Gazette

sincerity

When my wonderful Dad died
in the accident,
I

wept for weeks.
He was
stationed in Antarctica,

a thoroughly respected member of
a sterling research team
studying glacial recession.

He’d FaceTime me once a week,

always the same time, the same
satisfaction upon his face.

He’d eat carbonara criolla made by his
Patagonian colleagues and through its steam tell me

about all the crucial progress
they were making, drip insights
into climate protection.

What they were doing meant
something, he’d say, it was to guarantee all of our futures!

And I’d smile and spoon some
yogurt into my mouth, glance at the rays of sun trickling in to the kitchen,

effuse about life, about my job, about Mom’s efforts to keep herself busy, about
all he was missing…

Everything felt
like it was going to be
okay: he had that effect on people.

His favourite observations
were always about the penguins—
those Emperors, those Adelie.

He’d developed a habit of watching them, studying the niceties of their societies.

For all their flippers and wild
eye brows, they lived and loved
much like we do:

They mated, frolicked,
got into the odd tiff;
their routines infectious.

But every so often, one waddle member would suffer a daze, see his or her eyes glaze over,

and through unspeakable compulsion drift away from the pack, into the tundra, the

mountains, making of the self a solitary prey—and my dearest father would so often watch them with keen focus wander off some

where, never to come back, to the extent that one day, he, too,
after seeing this happen so

many times felt through his generous empathy and capacity to connect with others and animals compelled to wander off himself, past the limits of his research zone and

over toward the ice wall he said sometimes let curious ships in

and hosted the military.

They say he slipped walking
on the ice. That he cracked his head

and was found surrounded

by
concerned
penguins
who recognized the beauty of his soul.

The water levels will rise again,
and i’ll be left here to wonder
what dear, sweet, innocent Pater was looking for,

yogurt never tasting quite as good as when it did when we
each had futures.

I don’t blame the penguins, though. Or the tundra for holding secrets. Life is about forgiveness and letting go.

But ohh, Father, praiseworthy Patriarch… How I miss you so!