Lies and sons.
Old man diaries (#1)
My father talked often,
of what went wrong,
who his father was,
Who he is as a father,
Long drawn out conversations,
Hours, sometimes felt like days,
The scotch flowed back then,
As to talk as a man,
Is often best with the mighty rye,
Pulling its tricks.
He was a king on his thrown,
a man of subtle action
through cheap liquor,
and a frailty rarely witnessed.
I’d often watch his gestures,
and the sadness in his eyes,
and wonder,
if his father,
had the same glazed despair,
and bewilderment of being,
That seemed to encompass him.
Maybe war does that to a man.
I have always loved the gold cross,
That he wears around his neck.
As a kid,
I remember asking,
one Sunday afternoon,
if I could lay down with him,
as he had an afternoon nap.
And we did.
His arm around my shoulder,
his gold cross reflecting the sun,
through the window.
Sleeping to the sound of his heartbeat.
(2013)
