Friday, February 07, 2014


I will be there for you, my father, though you were seldom there for me. I will fly through the night to stand beside you, your broken body, your bruised and battered face. I will be strong for you my father, though you were seldom strong for me. I will be a tower of strength beside you. I will be a pillar of light before you.

As a parent, you confused correction for encouragement, anger for strength, and distance for latitude. But I will forgive you, my voice low and steady. I will remind you of your failings and I will tell you they no longer matter. I will forgive you for your anger and your aloofness; I will forgive you now, now, right now, before it is too late. You will leave me soon, my father.

My father.

I will stand beside you as you go. I will hold your arm, your wrist, your hand. I will hold that hand as I did when I was a child. And I will remember, then, a sky so blue and wide-open. The sun golden - as it was then - shining through your hair. I will remember you towing me over shallow surf, laughing, waves rolling, sand and splashing.

And I will remember the fear of growing up and of being nothing and you, a pen in that hand, in this hand, looking up from your work and saying I would always have a place with you.

And I will remember the bad news I gave you, and your hand on the back of my hand as I stared at my feet. I was the devil then, my father, but not to you.

You were there for me, my father.

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