My dad is dying, I say, after the call comes
when I have to tell my boss, my best
friend, more friends, the man who will fly
to be with me when his body is lowered
into the dark emptiness.
I say it, like a practice for letting
the light fracture, the roots uproot,
their gnarled moan enter where
I cannot find breath, hold silence,
where the phone line tightens,
truth too bare to be bribed, to be
cloaked, beribboned on the tongue
that tastes what was rationed — reconciliation,
time, love —
no… not love
because we want to believe we’ve given
enough and given well, that the unspoken
flows through blood.
When we break our promises, isn’t the pain
we carry a weighted love?
What’s created in the chasm but a ringing
of every tenderness we think
we don’t deserve?
My dad is dying, I say,
after the mind leaps, rupture
after the call comes in,
and revision, and the body staggers
into a dream of rampant thieves
and the heart keeps its beat
open
wild miracle
making the way
we will walk.
Happy Father’s Day to your memory of your beautiful father. thank you for putting words to that precious, vulnerable, beloved time. love, anita
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Holding you and your infinitely loving heart and wisdom in my heart and prayers. 💞 🙏🏼
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Thank you, my sweet friend.
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Thank you, dear friend. Thank you. And love you.
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