Yours was snuffed out,
Yanked so rudely from me,
Even before my own life began,
A flash and, what the hell?
All I have are pictures,
Stories, I haVe no scented memories,
No.... Visual comfort etched in my brain,
All I have are vague accounts,
Yet somehow, I feel you with me,
Not all the time but, certainly,
When the bottom falls out,
And I feel spent,
Your face pops right in there,
To be sure, a serene face,
A father's face, a tragically young face,
Too young to be gone,
Yet you are, gone I mean,
But only in person,
You're never gone from my heart,
The man I never knew, yet love,
For in spite of your death,
You gave me life,
What a gift,
I'll never stop speaking your name,
Harry to some, Junior to others, daddy to your sons,
My lovely dad... To me,
That way, you're never really dead, are you?.........??
My father died a young man of 26, when my mother was pregnant with me..
All I have are other people's accounts of him.. And I cling to those accounts, I also speak of him often, and I speak to him.. That way, he's never really gone..