The Way My Father Suffered

for Randy and Dean

The only time I remember 

seeing my father suffer

was on an airplane.

Mother would dress us up,

my brothers and me, 

for the Boeing 747 flight to Miami 

where we flew twice yearly 

(Christmas and Easter)

our seats were in the smoking section

back when airplanes had them.

You could not see my father's suffering 

in his eyes

but I could tell he suffered

inside his head

when he squeezed his palms together

in front of his face

made a steeple of his fingers

like he was about to recite a prayer

and blocked his nostrils

with his thumbs

as the jet engines rumbled 

and the nose of the fuselage rose

with all the vacationing families 

locked into their seats,

gaining altitude;

for my father there was no escaping

the pressure building 

inside his head

and he would seal his lips

puff-up his cheeks 

like Miles or Dizzy 

and blow an invisible horn

that made no music

sounded no alarm

(but made me giggle 

under my breath);

because my father was born 

with only one ear

which was why 

my mother used to say 

he only heard half

of what she told him.

My father never said a word 

about his suffering 

when we flew

or what he was thinking

and I never heard the tiny explosion,

the pop in his head

that released the pressure,

and then one day

he was gone.