In the middle of the summer, br when I was twenty-two br and wore sneakers with no socks br and was growing my first beard, br my father died. br br In the middle of the summer, br when my son was one years old br and lay in his playpen br in the hardscrabble grass of the backyard, br making living sounds br and grabbing for fistfuls of air, br my father died. br br In the middle of the summer, br days before somebody walked on the moon, br days after the bright-colored beginnings br of my daughter's life, br my father died. br br In the middle of the summer, br when, as a father, br I first sat out on the porch past midnight br listening to the haunting, faraway comfort br of late-night, west coast ball games, br and the tender wisps of breathing of my own two babes, br br in the middle of the summer br when I first had trouble sleeping, br and before we had the luxury to know br each others' hurts and hollows, br hopes and heartaches, br br in the summer of 1969 br (several sad and sorry seasons br beyond the end of his living) , br my father died. br br As did, br as did a part of his boy.