Ghazal for Gary

A eulogy for my father, Gary Colgan, who died last year

L-R: My grandmother, Sally; my father, Gary; me.

This Wednesday’s poem was made possible by emotional support from the Substack community.

Usually, these mid-week long poems are for paid subscribers, but I want everyone to be able to read this one.

A few days ago, I reached out for support with something really difficult, and hundreds of people enveloped me with likes, kind words, hugs, and stories from their own lives that made me feel less alone. This is the note I posted:

A little background: about a year ago, my father suffered a catastrophic health event that was made worse by his lack of access to high-quality emergency care close to where he lived.

This delay in getting him to an adequate emergency department caused a chain reaction of further health events, which in turn, led to his eventual death.

He left behind a wife, a son, a daughter, seven siblings, and many caring friends from his job in management and his time playing volleyball and soccer on community teams.

He had a kind heart, capable hands, and a curious mind. He is missed.

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Please consider reading more about the state of rural health care in the United States:

If you would like to honor Gary Colgan’s memory with a donation, please consider contributing to the American Heart Association in his name:

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Click below to hear me read you this poem:

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Ghazal For Gary

Rural crowds: joyfully dancing, because of my father.
Big amp became cash for a ring, because of my father.

Work ethic born on chilly upstate New York dairy farm,
Within my hands, continuing, because of my father. 

Country band with his brother to make ends meet as young men,
Uncle on guitar, Dad singing, because of my father.

Middle son of eight understood feeling lost in the crowd:
Young me felt seen, heard warm praising, because of my father.

A man who fell in love, and was sure long before she was:
A marriage, decades-lasting, because of my father.

The dandelions that popped up looked so gorgeous to us:
Saw only reluctant mowing, because of my father. 

Son of a mother who knew wartime loss and stood so brave:
Saw that strong woman living because of my father.

A person who settled easily into teaching roles:
Gaining a new understanding, because of my father.

Cranberry sauce: I prefer the jellied, not whole berry,
At the table for Thanksgiving, because of my father.

No one on my youth soccer team ever wanted for a
Hair tie: ponytails, high-flying, because of my father. 

So many hours on tennis courts, teaching me how to ride a bike:
Held steady from behind, gliding, because of my father.

My young cousin, now a woman grown, back in the day,
Saw new colors, learned their meaning, because of my father. 

Errands were teachable moments, adulthood in training:
How to move through the world, learning, because of my father. 

Red rear-wheel-drive pickup truck with bags of sand in the bed:
Parallel parking, practicing, because of my father. 

Moving through the world as though I’m equal to any man,
So damn unafraid of speaking, because of my father. 

Community band rehearsal, my flute and his snare drum,
Each calm Thursday night, all playing, because of my father.

Music school audition trips each weekend for a whole month:
Strong and supported, exciting, because of my father.

When I miss my dad, I look down and tell myself, “Shelby,
You hold the magic that you bring because of your father.”

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Thank you so much for reading my work. It’s wonderful to have you here.

See you next week.