| “My father passed away,” said a woman's voice,
Speaking softly somewhere behind me on the bus.
I turned and looked back, but couldn’t tell
By anyone’s expression who had spoken.
I turned and faced forward again,
Thinking of various friends in the past
Who’d said the same words to me
Or words to that effect
And recalled as well the dour scenarios
In which I had to tell the same dire news
To some who did and some who didn’t know him,
The same dull choking news that all must say
Someday whether they can speak it well or not,
Whether they have religion that can sustain them or not
In whatever way may move them,
Whether their philosophy envelopes it and cushions it or not,
Whether any veil can mask it’s depth of sorrow or not.
My father’s been dead these twenty years
And I’m not used to it even now, except I know it’s true.
Sometimes I can decline to think of it,
Almost at times forget—but can’t get over it.
It may fade, but it never disappears.
Sometimes I’m glad that he’s not here
To see me do some things so badly;
But I also wish he were here
Because I know that he would help me.
rcs.
Current draft: 4/7/2010
Created on 4/6/2010 4:46 PM |
This is a beautiful poem, Ron. It's one so many will relate to. I and they can appreciate your ability to put into words a very difficult scenario and that sore place that never ever goes away for most of us.
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