At bedtime, my kids ask why I pause after the third lullaby and why I always sing five songs. I tell them that’s what fathers do. It’s what my father did, and still does when he has the breath for it.
The first was Last Kiss. Not a love song. The girl was gone by verse two. Then Big Bad John. A miner rescuing others and burying himself in the process. My dad tapped staccato on my head with the hand missing a finger. He sometimes lost his place, but Big John still died. Song three was The Ballad of the Green Beret. I always cried halfway through, but Dad kept singing, as if his buried father was pulling him to the finish line. Teen Angel was fourth, another accident, another mangled car. To this day, I close my eyes at railroad crossings. And finally, Tora Lora Lora, the only one without a funeral. Still, I sobbed when his voice cracked on the mother part.
The whole time, I tried not to roll toward his weight on the mattress, like a seesaw that doesn’t play fair. So I learned to lean away, toward a wall sharp with white spackle. He’d reach to muss my hair, his breath strong with Irish whiskey, and leave me alone in the dark, humming something upbeat as he closed the door. I’d fall asleep believing that was growing up: soldiers, lovers, miners, children. Tears and darkness threaded through every lesson.
Before my own children were born, I memorized every happy lullaby I could find. I Googled what Mr. Rogers sang to his kids. But somewhere around the third song, my voice would slip. The rhythm would turn familiar, the old pull too strong. Tonight, with his cancer consuming what’s left, I didn’t make it to five. Three was all I knew.
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© 2025, Patrick G. Roland
Halfway Down the Stairs 