I sometimes wish
we conversed more
you and I,
but we rarely did.

We both preferred
the silence
to over talk;
each shared

a Stoic philosophy,
Spartan in our ways,
even in our former days.  
Sometimes, my son,

I wish I had said more
and you to me,
but it wasn't our way;
I guess we were

more alike
than I thought,
preferring reason,
to emotional turmoil,

preferring the calm
before the storm,
our quiet hand
upon the helm of ship,

our steadiness
against the tides
of trudging time.
I wish that we

had said more in words
to each the other
over the recent years,
before your death

had silenced you,
before the grief set in
and tore
at soul and mind.

I still converse with you,
my son,
but in a different
manner now,

more open,
more expressive,
knowing you will hear
in your quiet way,

even after death,
after days, months
and years, after hurt
and pain and tears.

I wish sometimes
we conversed more
you and I,
that we had said

the things that now
I wish to say,
but we were more alike
than I thought then,

not just father and son,
but kindred
philosophical
gentle men.