Sunday mornings I would reach
high into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
through pines, where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved, lingering on
bands, leather, and on the inner silk
crowns where I would smell his
hair and almost think I was being
held, or climbing a tree, touching
the yellow fruit, leaves whose scent
was that of a clove in the godsome
air, as now, thinking of his fabulous
sleep, I stand on this canyon floor
and watch light slowly close
on water I’m not sure is there.
~Mark Irwin “My Father’s Hats”

My father was always more comfortable working outdoors rather than at a desk. He had a nice felt hat for going to church along with the requisite suit and tie, but at home he wore a work cap with a tattered bill and a farm shop logo on the front. It hung on a hook in our breezeway, always sweat-stained from his laboring in full sun on projects on our small farm. I think he could wring it out at the end of the day.

My dad was not one for wearing aftershave or cologne, even to his office job. He had to scrub hard on Sunday mornings as his fingernails contained soil from the garden and grease from the car engines. He smelled like the woods where he slashed and piled brush, like the smoke from the burn piles he lit, like the cement he was always mixing to create his latest walkway, foundation, or support structure. And he always smelled of tobacco – his chosen vice – but never of alcohol which ruined not only his own father’s life and those around him.

I don’t think my father lost his faith even when he suffered at the end, dying of a second cancer after the first was defeated. He wasn’t one to speak of God or salvation so I simply assumed, just as I did during those decades of Sunday morning hat and suits, worshiping in church.

His light shone, even during the hard times when I wasn’t sure it was still there.