A Song for My Father on his Birthday

Every time I hear the whistle of the Ontario Northlander, or a freight train as it rumbles on into Bracebridge, I say hello to my father.

He's not the engineer blowing the whistle, not now; never will be again, but I hear the lonely sound echoing off the granite cliffs of the Canadian Shield, I hear it through the confines of the brick walls where I spend my days. 

It's my daddy calling. 

He never said much, in life. Almost never said, "I love you." Yelled at me as much as anything but I mostly deserved it. At my sister's wedding reception, after the slide show I had produced, he came up to me with tears in his eyes and he cleared his throat and said, uncharacteristically formal, "I'm proud of you, daughter," and my knees buckled under the weight of the compliment.

Today when the train whistle called, I wished him a happy birthday.

I can't bake him a cake, or send him a card, or kiss his grizzled cheek. But I can play him one of his favourite songs, which is now one of my favourites, too, because Daddy, I'll always be walking the floor over you.

You left me and you went away.

You said that you'd be back in just a day.

You've broken your promise

and you left me here alone.

I don't know why you did, dear,

but I do know that you're gone.

I'm walking the floor over you.

I can't sleep a wink, that is true.

I'm hoping and I'm praying 

as my heart breaks right in two,

walking the floor over you.

Now some day you may be lonesome, too.

Walking the floor is good for you.

Just keep right on walking 

and it won't hurt you to cry.

Remember that I loved you 

and I will the day I die.

I'm walking the floor over you.

I can't sleep a wink, that is true.

I'm hoping and Im praying

as my heart breaks right in two,

walking the floor over you.

– Ernest Tubb, 1941