#fatherson
Not the voice—
though I still hear it
in the way wind moves through curtains
on certain afternoons.
Not the hands—
though I still feel them
when I lift something heavy,
when I hold something breakable.
What remains is stranger.
The way he tilted his head
before answering a hard question—
I do that now.
The way he hummed without knowing,
a tuneless thing,
while reading the morning paper—
I caught myself doing it
last Sunday,
and froze,
and listened
to the ghost in my throat.
He taught me to tie a tie
by standing behind me,
our hands moving together
in the mirror.
Now every knot I make
is his hands
repeating their lesson.
He never said "I love you."
Not once.
But when I fell from the bicycle,
when the skin peeled from my knee
like wet petals,
he picked me up
not with his arms
but with his voice—
steady, unhurried,
as if falling
was just another way
of learning to rise.
I understand now.
Some men keep their love
in a locked drawer.
They open it only
when no one is watching.
They leave it open
just long enough
for the air to change.
Once, I found him asleep
on the couch,
the newspaper spread across his chest
like a second skin.
I watched his breath go in and out,
in and out,
and thought:
this is what holds the world together—
not prayers, not promises,
but a man breathing
in a room full of people he forgot
to tell he loved them.
He is gone now.
The house feels taller,
emptier,
like a body that has stopped breathing.
But sometimes,
when I am alone,
when the phone rings at the wrong hour,
when I solve something difficult,
when I laugh too loud at my own joke—
I feel him turn
in that vast earth,
turn toward the sound of me,
and smile
the way he smiled
when I wasn't looking.
Father,
you did not leave me.
You simply changed addresses.
Now you live
in the space between my bones
and my skin,
in the pause between my breath
and my next breath.
I carry you
the way the earth carries water—
invisibly,
essentially,
always.
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 6:11 PM UTC
The absence of a person very much needed
Is not the reason you deserve my frustration and to be condemned
When your life celebrated
gave me fulfillment in everything
which the blind can see, has define meaning.
I will not be the father to you.
Mine was to me.
Your essence provided blessings for my youth to remain eternal.
You never failed anyone. I promise you.
I can only live one life time. Although worlds beyond the metaverse and multiverse have brought experiences and traveled multiple in dreams, to this day that still mystifies me. As your father, I am more than willing to give my life up for you. My attachment here only serves purpose to protect, empower, heal you primarily, along with queens and kings of good heart morals.
I can only leave this life time once. You only have one life armed with endless capabilities. Use them to your advantage. Never lose sight on that concept. Everyday, I chose to live for you. Because, I refuse to phantom or imagine a realm without your existence.
YOU
WILL
NOT
BE
FORSAKEN
MY SON.
Lead this world with love, which lives in you. I believe in you, and I am more than proud to be your father. You going to change something of this world with all the other babies growing to be adults.
Never stop winning!
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 11:16 AM UTC
Some nights, my son,
I dream of you in some scene
unfamiliar, for some reason
unfortold at least to me,
and it is the you I used to know
before the fatal end; yet I am unaware
( as in dreams it seems)
that you are here no more,
maybe off in some other sphere,
some other shore.
I hugged you in one dream,
so close I felt your body's warmth,
feeling a sense of strange relief
that you were there, until you
disappeared like melted snow
and the reality sank in
that I must let you go.
Some nights, my son,
I search my dreams for you,
through the dark corridors
of your final days, walk past
the room I left you last,
look again and again at you
lying there comatosed,
eyes closed, wired up to machines
and lights and sounds
like one who dozed.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
Where the place? my son,
where are you now? I have
searched the dark nights
of dreams to see you there,
but vaguely you were there
but not just dreams' falsity
in grief's hope.
I searched through day after day
in places we both knew and where
you grew, but you were not there
as once you were, just shadows
of a time no more, room following room, opening and closing door.
I often sense you close to me,
not some place else where
dark days tell, but here and there
where we may wish or want or need
day following day, wishing we could
cope with grief and loss that way.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
It was a small book
he gave me
full of empty pages
and promises.
Like dads who pull quarters
from behind their childrens'
ears
a son
hopes there is magic
in a blank book.
So, I drip letters
from my pen
stacking them
like dragons
or a
firetruck
or a
memory that smells like
the honeysuckle we drank
on bicycle rides.
I pray he finds
a quiet place
where he can hold these thoughts
as firmly as held
his Ninja Turtle sword.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
The son makes the father proud. The son sees what the father does and imitates him. As if he doesn't notice, the father chuckles and in his heart says, “My son.” The son works to reduce the burden on his father, and the father works hard so as not to overwork his son.
Ah, so I see, the father and the son are indistinguishable; the father and the son are one.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC