I have turned twenty-eight now.
You were at my age when you decided
To settle down with Mama.
Now that the passing of time has

Gone far, enough to make us
Realize the idealized moments
Of our lives, momentary though
It seemed, let me speak to you the

Unspeakable words unheard for so
Long. Papa, most of the time
I would catch myself conversing
Within your tone and sharing your

Shadow. I  am your fragments trapped
In the ironic  haze of summertime and
Solitude. I want you to know that
Growing up without you is one of the

Most injurious realities of my life---more
Injurious than betraying my art and heart
For music and Muses. I have learned to
Yearn for nothing. But, I am hoping that

Unlike the oppressive silence which haunted
Our very selves for many years, let this piece
of peace be our silent sanctuary of hope and
Forgiveness.

Your Son,
Yourself