I'm trying to remember
The words my father wrote.
He was a poet, in earlier days.
When he lived my lifetime once,
(Now he's lived it three-or-so times over.)
And I remember one day finding the words he wrote,
Photocopied onto bright white paper.
And it was then that I first realized how much I am like my father.
His words then held just as much as my words do now--
As much love,
As much anger,
As much confusion,
And, at times, as much hate.
And now that I feel lost and alone, I try to dig up the pages
That were haphazardly tucked in-between the leafs of a novel, I think
Or maybe an atlas,
Or maybe in a drawer,
Or maybe under the bed...
Behind the bookshelf?
In a photo album?
In a book
Any book
In the kitchen
Above the fridge
In a box
This box
Not this box
That box
Not that box
Any box,
Try any box,
Every box --
Which brings me to now.
Now I sit here, on the kitchen floor
Stirring my lukewarm chamomile,
Watching the air,
And the clock,
Breathing deeply through my mouth,
Holding back any sound
Searching through my head
To remember the words he wrote
Long ago
That somehow might make me feel my father's comforting smile
Now.
I miss my dad.
