My Daddy Was a Jazz Man

My daddy was a jazz man.

I remember old discs, scratched and worn. Soothing as their melodies and progressions massaged the walls of our home.

I remember jazz concerts, father son moments, me falling asleep during the final set before I was grown.

Dark and eloquent. His hands. The concert hall. Soothing like morning coffee.

Him nodding to the rhythm, understanding what I had yet to appreciate.

As a daddy, I will be a jazz man.

Life moving fast, deep breaths of quarter notes calming me, reminding me of the slip into a peaceful sleep, father son moments before I was grown.

Life moving fast, chords and progressions lulling my boy to sleep as I hold him.

Dark and eloquent. My hands. The concert hall. Soothing like morning coffee.

I will nod to the rhythm. Fatherhood. Appreciating what I have yet to understand.