Your glass was never half empty, nor was it half full
yet somehow always filled to the brim with gin
and tonic and two olives.
Every night I got home past midnight,
your breath reeked of a dry martini.
Dad, father,
they say grief becomes easier to bear with time,
but dearest daddy, tell me why
my ears are still ringing
with the sound of my regret.
If I was the ocean
I would drown you just for a split second
so you would sink to the deepest, darkest place
and see exactly how you made me feel.
Sometimes in my dreams you tell me it’s okay.
You say “forgive me.”
Sometimes, you even whisper, “you don’t have to wake up.”
Tonight, you sung me the song you used to hum
right before I fell asleep.
Tonight I realized I never appreciated the way you carved the turkey
on Thanksgiving. And how even when you sliced your middle-finger open,
you still made sure everyone had a piece.
There are plenty of feelings I’ve never felt
just because I didn’t let myself.
Though, to feel loss on the scale of heartbreak
was my worst loss of all. All I know is
I am in love, or I never was.
I don’t feel the past as painful. What I do know is
that you are my father, the first man I loved,
and it has changed everything.
I wanted you to tell me
how much you admired the strength of the ocean
while you were getting pulled by the current out to sea.
And I wanted you to mumble “that was one hell of a last sunset”
when the sky swallowed the sun
right before we said our last goodbye.
Your slippers that stink of Gold Bond’s Powder
still sit directly in front of your blue suede recliner
placed in the middle of the living room. The New York Giants bear
your grandchildren gifted you is keeping the seat warm. But sometimes,
I still see you there,
falling asleep like you always did on Christmas Eve.
Please wake up once more and kiss my head
so I can fall asleep with you.