a memory flickered to life
right. straight in the center of my mind
they say beauty is in the 'eye of the beholder',
my father always saw it.
Sadly, I did not.
all I learned
I scrutinized throughout the duration of my existence
was this one word:
addiction
and how everything spiraled downhill
in the path of my father's journey into madness.
what i want to say
will never bring him back.
i could talk for hours
about the color
and depth of his eyes
try in vain to make anyone see
what a decent person he was.
loss.
another word i loathe
to this day.
i'm lost.
trying to find myself.
when something is lost,
one usually recovers it
but what about a whole person?
do fragments of them
just eventually scatter
to the point
where I can't ever
build them up again?
i tried so hard to 'fix him'
but in doing so
bits and pieces
of myself
seemed to bleed out
in every direction
like runny ink on paper.
if my father could just be a file,
i remembered to back up on a memory drive,
it would be so much simpler, would it not?
Instead I question every little thing,
about this man,
who often after a hard day of work,
would wash the white paint
drying fast and hard
on his hands
in the kitchen sink
whip off a sweat soaked t-shirt,
throw a new one on,
start dinner,
and then attend a 7:00 meeting
3 times a week.
still mulling over this
is a huge process.
i am not entirely certain
i will ever recover
but i do know this
he loved me very much
and his love alone
prompts me forward
no matter the mistakes i make
the angst i recreate
the tears that i've showered
alone
in the absence of the missing piece
to my puzzled mind
memories
the thin yet swift fabrication
of time
are all i have in the end.
to tide me over