Ode to Father Jacoby
The final mile
of any journey home
takes us down
Jacoby Drive,
past memories of
summer afternoons
spent swimming
with Father Jacoby.
On my first day,Behind the Mask of the Lone Ranger 65
he extended his hands,
encouraged me
to trust, take hold, and
venture into the water.
He rewarded my bravery
with butter cookies
and red-hot candy that
burned when I bit into it,
so I went swimming again.
Father Jacoby taught me
and a generation of boys
the dog paddle and American crawl,
the back-float and butterfly,
until one day he watched
one of his boys—arms stroking—
legs kicking—lungs straining—
completing one length of the pool
and earning his blessing
to swim in the deep water.
Then he demonstrated diving—
First—off the edge,
so we could glide down
and pick up the pennies
he pitched into the pool.
Second—off the board,
so we could soar over the waves
like winged creatures of God
before we plunged into
baptismal waters.
We emerged and took
Father’s lessons,
his dives and kicks,
and his sermons,
spoken in the language
of example—
with us forever.