My father, in heaven, is reading out loudto himself Psalms or news. Now he ponders what he's read. No. He is listening for the soundof children in the yard. Was that laughingor crying? So much depends upon theanswer, for either he will go on reading,or he'll run to save a child's day from grief.As it is in heaven, so it was on earth.Because my father walked the earth with a grave,determined rhythm, my shoulders achedfrom his gaze. Because my father's shouldersached from the pulling of oars, my life now moveswith a powerful back-and-forth rhythm:nostalgia, speculation. Because hemade me recite a book a month, I forgeteverything as soon as I read it. And knowledgenever comes but while I'm mid-stride a flightof stairs, or lost a moment on some avenue.A remarkable disappointment to him,I am like anyone who arrives latein the millennium and is unableto stay to the end of days. The world'sbeginnings are obscure to me, its outcomesinaccessible. I don't understandthe source of starlight, or starlight's destinations.And already another year slides outof balance. But I don’t disparage scholars;my father was one and I loved him,who packed his books once, and all of our belongings,then sat down to await instructionfrom his god, yes, but also from a radio.At the doorway, I watched, and I suddenlyknew he was one like me, who got my learningunder a lintel; he was one of the powerless,to whom knowledge came while he sat amongsuitcases, boxes, old newspapers, string.He did not decide peace or war, home or exile,escape by land or escape by sea.He waited merely, as always someonewaits, far, near, here, hereafter, to find out:is it praise or lament hidden in the next moment?