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Wade Redfearn Jul 2018
It isn't like that.
It isn't a left turn too early,
a lark awake at night,
thick brown light in an open field;
unpredictable: a bad or counter-miracle.
It is only wanton.

You know how it is
Suddenly, something trapped between your toes:
the world has a strangled voice, it is
unroofed. You want the comfort of normal walls,
normal light, normal noise; in your hand
is a hot brand you'd halfway use
to smith it back together
and halfway swallow.
I had different plans for this vacation
than destruction.

I had plans. You had plans. The earth
planned its axial tilt; the weather planned
its burning; we put aside too little water.
A few plants were familiar -
the ruined piñon pine I remembered from the placard.
One lonesuch tree that made a little niche
at a defiant angle into the air
and outlived all except its orphaning.
How we thought we could fare better, I cannot say.

Ten feet up by one hundred feet over:
one liter water per mile climbed:
fatigue. Fatigue.
The quiet supremacy of all these rules for living like
transit and occultation
refraction and dimness
exertion
hunger
peristalsis pulling down
huge loads of sunlight
into the ***** gully
like bread and meat.

You will not see the bottom
no matter how hard you look.

If blood I am, then what kind of blood?
Unsettled and unsettling. The circulatory system
has an apt name: sometimes I can feel yesterday's blood
in the same neurons, saying the same thing.
I have no choice but to repeat it.
Time sheds its significance.
I have no continuity:
I have rhythms.

The new day, on fire and sitting in the trickle
you held a golden fish in your palm
as if you had made it by will
and cupped, it circled in the valley of your fingers
and I ate from the vision of care.

Erosion: isn't that what made these furrows?
I beg it to unmake me
flat like a seabed and many fathoms green
where the sun will never reach me.

In the penumbra of your anger
I do not fear dying,
only dying unclean.
Heights are all the same.
They would all break me and none would enough.
The grasshoppers and gecko hatchlings
all die in their way, rubbed in the hot dry dust.
Parched, I gnash my stone teeth
and tongue of chaparral -
I am making a song to say
die with me
but smile at me.

Then I see it through flashes of temper,
frame by frame, like a fingertip behind a pinwheel:
a dream of something distant that is also true.
Dreams of freedom alongside dreams of dying.
aL Jan 31
In dimness, he is inlove
Clandestine departure of the sun
Grays are prosperous clouds
Winds blows cold as the devil
Viciously can tear a layer of skin
Flaky mist starts to shower upon
And then a few melancholic days
Desensitized this mortal ground
imagery
Yue Wang Yidhna Dec 2018
I dreamt about you last night

Or as I know now

I saw you

In a different time

But within the same space

Where we’ve always coexisted

Silently, without

Loudly, within


I was never sure before

If I am just hearing my own

Echoes of words I sang for you

But heard only by me

An illusive love of two

In front of a cloudy mirror

Obscured by a lack of presence


Perhaps


If I kept my silence

I’d hear your voice again


If I disappeared

I’d find you once again


To my surprise

Though it was expected

Just like your impermanence

Just like your absence

Your presence in my dream

Caught me off guard in motion

As you held me tightly

While the twinges of your

Tangible soul blossomed

Throughout every atom

Of my being


Echoing through the night sky

In your unmistakable voice

Giving light to stars that have always

Permanently been there

But were ignored by me

In my search of you

Among the visible

While you hid within every

Light and darkness

Every flowering star

Every bit of space

Fertile as earth

Darker than the midnight sea

With its shimmering reflections

That which  

I am now swimming through

And falling into

Like a child

In this storm of every sense


In my own dimness

I always thought

You were reaching me through

The same time

But separated by a different

Space


I didn’t see the truth

I felt it

But I never understood it

You were never showing me

A life of if and could’ve


You were showing me

Our future

Our love in a different time

But

Within the same space

Where our souls have

Always coexisted


Where our soul

Has always

Intertwined
Reupload to community as it appears to be invisible for the majority of users:
The Spacetime of Our Soul
April 16, 2018
By: Yidhna

(Inspired by Jamadhi Verse)
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2456474/domgasse/
Mikaila Sep 2018
I try not to let anyone catch me gazing at you
But it’s like gravity has shifted.
I drink in the sight of you,
Any moment when I can look at your face.
When people are around I force myself to ignore you
But that makes you loom larger,
A force so powerful my heart aches,
And it is an agony to turn away, to pretend I don’t feel a pull strong enough to dizzy me-
Just one more second
Just one more glance
As if you’ll be gone if I wait too long.
In those rare moments when I can look at you without fear
I’m surprised you don’t see the tenderness in my face,
A gentleness I am ashamed of
Because it is both
Unmistakable
And traitorous.
The artist in me notices the curve of your jaw
The softness of your mouth
The depth behind your black rimmed eyes.

I could paint until my hands bled and not capture the hypnotic grace you wear like a mantle.
I truly don’t think you have any sense of it.

The other day I walked into the room, glancing into the shadows
And stopped short.
I covered for it quickly, but what halted me wasn’t surprise at seeing someone in the chair there,
It was awe.
You could have stepped out of a painting of the fallen angels and chosen that armchair as your throne.
Soft light poured over the green velvet of the cushions, stopping only to frame your face in shadow.
Your eyes glittered in the dimness
As you glanced up at me,
And I could have left the Garden
Aflame
For your gaze alone.
Just then,
I know I would have.

It is dangerous to look at someone the way
I know
I look at you.
Beauty isn’t the word
You’re something more
Something harsher
Something deeper
Something
More complete,
And when I look at you-
Sidelong
Hoping nobody will notice
Hoping that you won’t find me out
But drawn there by a force I can’t resist-
When I look at you,

I know that Heaven and Hell are only words
But I feel
Both
In my very skin.
Samantha Cunha Nov 2018
Track marked
noir beauty queen
eyes of dimness
no longer gleam
unraveling slowly
at the seams
dreams in flames
on fire by fiends
promises of gilded
love and sin
drew a heart of gold in
Eryri Oct 2018
Lamp light show me the night
Cast your white-yellow reach
And blot out the darkness that blinds.
Smother that which is lightless
With a blanket of warm glowing light.

Night is full of uncertainties,
Is unpredictable and a mystery.
But night need not be dark;
A small beacon can overpower dimness,
And can ***** out a patch of night.
e Oct 2018
i've grown to believe that
the key to finding endgame is timing.
two people can be perfect for each other,
but meet at the worst times in their lives;
or the other way around, with ideal timing,
they simply slide into each other’s lives
like methodically carved out pieces.
this belief, or principle, or whatever—
slapped over my perspective on life—
even though i know better than to do so.
sometimes, i actively blame my failures
on something along the lines of,
this isn’t my time yet,
though i don’t really think that—
self-aware as i am.
maybe it’s because i'm too scared
to confront the thought that
my whole life has been a terribly timed game.
maybe it’s because i'm laughably depressed
and anxious all the time, that
the emptiness has somehow grown comfortable.
it is definite though, the feeling that
life has never given me anything all this time.
but, i want to be romantic about life for once,
and say that i'm empty because
my timing has always been off:
spent 47 minutes mulling over something instead of doing it;
didn’t reflect over a thought before saying it out loud;
a moment quicker than most;
a split second too late.
but, for once,
in all my failings
throughout the horribly spaced out moments in my life,
i finally get to say that even though tomorrow
i might be an hour and a half late
for something special to finally enter my dull life—
these seconds i get right here,
watching as the dimness of you is washed away in warm lighting,
unromantic ash pelting down on our heavy coats,
harsh serenades of a drunken crowd ambushing our ears,
all while celebrating my favourite holiday,
and the one that makes you hurt most—
maybe, maybe—
my timing is just right.
written on january 1, 2017
Terry Collett Nov 2018
Wally hadn't wanted
to fight for King and Country,
but he was called up anyway.

We hadn't been
getting on
too well recently,
but with him away
we get on better,
but I dread him
coming home
on leave.

Last time
he was on leave
we argued
after an evening
down the pub.

Nathan is playing piano
and singing at the club
up West; I sit and watch
and listen to him;
his wife Natalie
is beside me,
their daughter Nita
is staying in the country
with Nathan's parents
in case the bombs
come again.

Natalie sips her drink:
he sings dreamy,
she says.

Yes,
he does,
I say,
looking at her
beside me.

She smiles:
just wish he didn't
smoke so much.

I gaze at him
leaning lower,
his hands playing
on the keys.

I think he's
seeing someone,
she says quietly.

I sense my heart thump
and hope in the dimness
of the club,
she cannot
see me blush.

Surely not,
I say,
my voice concerned:
he loves you
and Nita too much.

She places her hand
on mine: I think he is;
wouldn't be the first time,
but he promised me.

She breaks off
and squeezes my hand.

Let me know
if you see him
with another,
she says.

I nod,
not trusting
to words.

There is applause
and we join in.

I shall have to
not see him
for awhile,
I muse.

He plays again;
his voice warm and silky
on the air.

I sip my drink
and stare.
A woman whose husband is fighting abroad,  has had an affair with a singer  pianist, husband of her friend in London 1942
I turn my head to the most beautiful sight of all - the sapphire, green-brown, grey ocean.
(Breath In)

The thick blue ocean that rolls, churns, and glistens.
And the glisten slices, the glistening currents. The ripples that move the ripples that have no ending or beginning.
(Breathe Out)
_

Every shape, form, and structure captured in the liquid.
It smooths out.
It rounds out.
It rolls out, it crashes down.
It’s smooth clarity. It’s smoothness it beyond me.

Its beauty is truly found within its movement. It’s constant change, exchange between all forms;
Connections throughout,
Different experiences of the same object throughout,
And out and out.

I see this giant blue gulp, of sea of truly magnificent bodies of water held in a single space.

As I see the land overturn over:
In new shapes, colors, lengths, and everything that contrasts one thing to another

I just see so much brightness, dimness, and something that overturns into another.
,,,,
I can not believe this sea
How it makes that sound

And when nothing is around
It just profound,

How every jewel of the dancing ocean
is a collection of drops
connecting forms throughout
__

When I feel the truth of this beauty
I see,

the ocean, something I never created
It was there to touch us
To hold us
This ocean was made to believe in us.

Without realizing it I just fell into a deep sleep.
I fell into something so deep.
I felt the ocean's arms
embracing me
I love the ocean. This is my ode to the ocean
Erik McKee Oct 2018
Faces blur
Like radio tower lights fuzzily blinking on the horizon
Flashes of red, orange and green
Fading to the chocolate brown of the night, her eyes in the dimming light.
BLINK BLINK POP

The words, "I love you" drifting through the swirling dimness,
Her hair playing upon the milky moons of her cheeks
Her eyes flicker and become closer, closer.
Again, closer
BLINK BLINK POP

My nose taps hers, the cheap wine making me sway to and fro,
The wonderful scent washes over me: Mint and lavender,
Wine on the breath, the tinge of bitter sweetness.
     "I love you"
     "I love you, too"  

Her tied hair falls, like the cherry brown leaves of winter
Onto her freckled neck, her moony face outlined
In the dark chocolate of her hair.  
     "I love you"

I feel the surge of want building in my chest
I sway forward, steadying myself on the soft carpeted floor  
My heart's drumming
A shock of static, when flesh meets flesh
BLINK BLINK POP

I shudder, as I'm carried into the Fall rain
The frigid cold bites at my nose and lips, numbing them
Her face, blinking merrily, becoming further and further out on the horizon
I fall into bed
     BLINK BLINK POP  

                                        
The birds are chirping and my head hurts
Victor D López Dec 2018
You were born five years before the Spanish Civil War that would see your father exiled.
Language came later to you than your little brother Manuel. And you stuttered for a time.
Unlike those who speak incessantly with nothing to say, you were quiet and reserved.
Your mother mistook shyness for dimness, a tragic mistake that scarred you for life.

When your brother Manuel died at the age of three from meningitis, you heard your mom
Exclaim: “God took my bright boy and left me the dull one.” You were four or five.
You never forgot those words. How could you? Yet you loved your mom with all your heart.
But you also withdrew further into a shell, solitude your companion and best friend.

You were, in fact, an exceptional child. Stuttering went away at five or so never to return,
And by the time you were in middle school, your teacher called your mom in for a rare
Conference and told her that yours was a gifted mind, and that you should be prepared
For university study in the sciences, particularly engineering.

She wrote your father exiled in Argentina to tell him the good news, that your teachers
Believed you would easily gain entrance to the (then and now) highly selective public university
Where seats were few, prized and very difficult to attain based on merit-based competitive
Exams. Your father’s response? “Buy him a couple of oxen and let him plow the fields.”

That reply from a highly respected man who was a big fish in a tiny pond in his native Oleiros
Of the time is beyond comprehension. He had apparently opted to preserve his own self-
Interest in having his son continue his family business and also work the family lands in his
Absence. That scar too was added to those that would never heal in your pure, huge heart.

Left with no support for living expenses for college (all it would have required), you moved on,
Disappointed and hurt, but not angry or bitter; you would simply find another way.
You took the competitive exams for the two local military training schools that would provide
An excellent vocational education and pay you a small salary in exchange for military service.

Of hundreds of applicants for the prized few seats in each of the two institutions, you
Scored first for the toughest of the two and thirteenth for the second. You had your pick.
You chose Fabrica de Armas, the lesser of the two, so that a classmate who had scored just
Below the cut-off at the better school could be admitted. That was you. Always and forever.

At the military school, you were finally in your element. You were to become a world-class
Machinist there—a profession that would have gotten you well paid work anywhere on earth
For as long as you wanted it. You were truly a mechanical genius who years later would add
Electronics, auto mechanics and specialized welding to his toolkit through formal training.

Given a well-stocked machine shop, you could reverse engineer every machine without
Blueprints and build a duplicate machine shop. You became a gifted master mechanic
And worked in line and supervisory positions at a handful of companies throughout your life in
Argentina and in the U.S., including Westinghouse, Warner-Lambert, and Pepsi Co.

You loved learning, especially in your fields (electronics, mechanics, welding) and expected
Perfection in everything you did. Every difficult job at work was given to you everywhere you
Worked. You would not sleep at night when a problem needed solving. You’d sketch
And calculate and re-sketch solutions and worked even in your dreams with singular passion.

You were more than a match for the academic and physical rigors of military school,
But life was difficult for you in the Franco era when some instructors would
Deprecatingly refer to you as “Roxo”—Galician for “red”-- reflecting your father’s
Support for the failed Republic. Eventually, the abuse was too much for you to bear.

Once while standing at attention in a corridor with the other cadets waiting for
Roll call, you were repeatedly poked in the back surreptitiously. Moving would cause
Demerits and demerits could cause loss of points on your final grade and arrest for
Successive weekends. You took it awhile, then lost your temper.

You turned to the cadet behind you and in a fluid motion grabbed him by his buttoned jacket
And one-handedly hung him up on a hook above a window where you were standing in line.
He thrashed about, hanging by the back of his jacket, until he was brought down by irate Military instructors.
You got weekend arrest for many weeks and a 10% final grade reduction.

A similar fate befell a co-worker a few years later in Buenos Aires who called you a
*******. You lifted him one handed by his throat and held him there until
Your co-workers intervened, forcibly persuading you to put him down.
That lesson was learned by all in no uncertain terms: Leave Felipe’s mom alone.

You were incredibly strong, especially in your youth—no doubt in part because of rigorous farm
Work, military school training and competitive sports. As a teenager, you once unwisely bent
Down to pick something up in view of a ram, presenting the animal an irresistible target.
It butted you and sent you flying into a haystack. It, too, quickly learned its lesson.

You dusted yourself off, charged the ram, grabbed it by the horns and twirled it around once,
Throwing it atop the same haystack as it had you. The animal was unhurt, but learned to
Give you a wide berth from that day forward. Overall, you were very slow to anger absent
Head-butting, repeated pokings, or disrespectful references to your mom by anyone.    

I seldom saw you angry and it was mom, not you, who was the disciplinarian, slipper in hand.
There were very few slaps from you for me. Mom would smack my behind with a slipper often
When I was little, mostly because I could be a real pain, wanting to know/try/do everything
Completely oblivious to the meaning of the word “no” or of my own limitations.

Mom would sometimes insist you give me a proper beating. On one such occasion for a
Forgotten transgression when I was nine, you  took me to your bedroom, took off your belt, sat
Me next to you and whipped your own arm and hand a few times, whispering to me “cry”,
Which I was happy to do unbidden. “Don’t tell mom.” I did not. No doubt she knew.

The prospect of serving in a military that considered you a traitor by blood became harder and
Harder to bear, and in the third year of school, one year prior to graduation, you left to join
Your exiled father in Argentina, to start a new life. You left behind a mother and two sisters you
Dearly loved to try your fortune in a new land. Your dog thereafter refused food, dying of grief.

You arrived in Buenos Aires to see a father you had not seen for ten years at the age of 17.
You were too young to work legally, but looked older than your years (a shared trait),
So you lied about your age and immediately found work as a Machinist/Mechanic first grade.
That was unheard of and brought you some jealousy and complaints in the union shop.

The union complained to the general manager about your top-salary and rank. He answered,
“I’ll give the same rank and salary to anyone in the company who can do what Felipe can do.”
No doubt the jealousy and grumblings continued by some for a time. But there were no takers.
And you soon won the group over, becoming their protected “baby-brother” mascot.

Your dad left for Spain within a year or so of your arrival when Franco issued a general pardon
To all dissidents who had not spilt blood (e.g., non combatants). He wanted you to return to
Help him reclaim the family business taken over by your mom in his absence with your help.
But you refused to give up the high salary, respect and independence denied you at home.

You were perhaps 18 and alone, living in a single room by a schoolhouse you had shared with Your dad.
But you had also found a new loving family in your uncle José, one of your father’s Brothers, and his family. José, and one of his daughters, Nieves and her
Husband, Emilio, and
Their children, Susana, Oscar (Ruben Gordé), and Osvaldo, became your new nuclear family.

You married mom in 1955 and had two failed business ventures in the quickly fading
Post-WW II Argentina of the late 1950s and early 1960s.The first, a machine shop, left
You with a small fortune in unpaid government contract work.  The second, a grocery store,
Also failed due to hyperinflation and credit extended too easily to needy customers.

Throughout this, you continued earning an exceptionally good salary. But in the mid 1960’s,
Nearly all of it went to pay back creditors of the failed grocery store. We had some really hard
Times. Someday I’ll write about that in some detail. Mom went to work as a maid, including for
Wealthy friends, and you left home at 4:00 a.m. to return long after dark to pay the bills.


The only luxury you and mom retained was my Catholic school tuition. There was no other
Extravagance. Not paying bills was never an option for you or mom. It never entered your
Minds. It was not a matter of law or pride, but a matter of honor. There were at least three very
Lean years where you and mom worked hard, earned well but we were truly poor.

You and mom took great pains to hide this from me—and suffered great privations to insulate
Me as best you could from the fallout of a shattered economy and your refusal to cut your loses
Had done to your life savings and to our once-comfortable middle-class life.
We came to the U.S. in the late 1960s after waiting for more than three years for visas—to a new land of hope.

Your sister and brother-in-law, Marisa and Manuel, made their own sacrifices to help bring us
Here. You had about $1,000 from the down payment on our tiny down-sized house, And
Mom’s pawned jewelry. (Hyperinflation and expenses ate up the remaining mortgage payments
Due). Other prized possessions were left in a trunk until you could reclaim them. You never did.

Even the airline tickets were paid for by Marisa and Manuel. You insisted upon arriving on
Written terms for repayment including interest. You were hired on the spot on your first
Interview as a mechanic, First Grade, despite not speaking a word of English. Two months later,
The debt was repaid, mom was working too and we moved into our first apartment.

You worked long hours, including Saturdays and daily overtime, to remake a nest egg.
Declining health forced you to retire at 63 and shortly thereafter you and mom moved out of
Queens into Orange County. You bought a townhouse two hours from my permanent residence
Upstate NY and for the next decade were happy, traveling with friends and visiting us often.

Then things started to change. Heart issues (two pacemakers), colon cancer, melanoma,
Liver and kidney disease caused by your many medications, high blood pressure, gout,
Gall bladder surgery, diabetes . . . . And still you moved forward, like the Energizer Bunny,
Patched up, battered, scarred, bruised but unstoppable and unflappable.

Then mom started to show signs of memory loss along with her other health issues. She was
Good at hiding her own ailments, and we noticed much later than we should have that there
Was a serious problem. Two years ago, her dementia worsening but still functional, she had
Gall bladder surgery with complications that required four separate surgeries in three months.

She never recovered and had to be placed in a nursing home. Several, in fact, as at first she
Refused food and you and I refused to simply let her waste away, which might have been
Kinder, but for the fact that “mientras hay vida, hay esperanza” as Spaniards say.
(While there is Life there is hope.) There is nothing beyond the power of God. Miracles do happen.

For two years you lived alone, refusing outside help, engendering numerous arguments about
Having someone go by a few times a week to help clean, cook, do chores. You were nothing if
Not stubborn (yet another shared trait). The last argument on the subject about two weeks ago
Ended in your crying. You’d accept no outside help until mom returned home. Period.

You were in great pain because of bulging discs in your spine and walked with one of those
Rolling seats with handlebars that mom and I picked out for you some years ago. You’d sit
As needed when the pain was too much, then continue with very little by way of complaints.
Ten days ago you finally agreed that you needed to get to the hospital to drain abdominal fluid.

Your failing liver produced it and it swelled your abdomen and lower extremities to the point
Where putting on shoes or clothing was very difficult, as was breathing. You called me from a
Local store crying that you could not find pants that would fit you. We talked, long distance,
And I calmed you down, as always, not allowing you to wallow in self pity but trying to help.

You went home and found a new pair of stretch pants Alice and I had bought you and you were
Happy. You had two changes of clothes that still fit to take to the hospital. No sweat, all was
Well. The procedure was not dangerous and you’d undergone it several times in recent years.
It would require a couple of days at the hospital and I’d see you again on the weekend.

I could not be with you on Monday, February 22 when you had to go to the hospital, as I nearly
Always had, because of work. You were supposed to be admitted the previous Friday, but
Doctors have days off too, and yours could not see you until Monday when I could not get off
Work. But you were not concerned; this was just routine. You’d be fine. I’d see you in just days.

We’d go see mom Friday, when you’d be much lighter and feel much better. Perhaps we’d go
Shopping for clothes if the procedure still left you too bloated for your usual clothes.
You drove to your doctor and then transported by ambulette. I was concerned, but not too Worried.
You called me sometime between five or six p.m. to tell me you were fine, resting.

“Don’t worry. I’m safe here and well cared for.” We talked for a little while about the usual
Things, with my assuring you I’d see you Friday or Saturday. You were tired and wanted to sleep
And I told you to call me if you woke up later that night or I’d speak to you the following day.
Around 10:00 p.m. I got a call from your cell and answered in the usual upbeat manner.

“Hey, Papi.” On the other side was a nurse telling me my dad had fallen. I assured her she was
Mistaken, as my dad was there for a routine procedure to drain abdominal fluid. “You don’t
Understand. He fell from his bed and struck his head on a nightstand or something
And his heart has stopped. We’re working on him for 20 minutes and it does not look good.”

“Can you get here?” I could not. I had had two or three glasses of wine shortly before the call
With dinner. I could not drive the three hours to Middletown. I cried. I prayed.
Fifteen minutes Later I got the call that you were gone. Lost in grief, not knowing what to do, I called my wife.
Shortly thereafter came a call from the coroner. An autopsy was required. I could not see you.

Four days later your body was finally released to the funeral director I had selected for his
Experience with the process of interment in Spain. I saw you for the last time to identify
Your body. I kissed my fingers and touched your mangled brow. I could not even have the
Comfort of an open casket viewing. You wanted cremation. You body awaits it as I write this.

You were alone, even in death alone. In the hospital as strangers worked on you. In the medical
Examiner’s office as you awaited the autopsy. In the autopsy table as they poked and prodded
And further rent your flesh looking for irrelevant clues that would change nothing and benefit
No one, least of all you. I could not be with you for days, and then only for a painful moment.

We will have a memorial service next Friday with your ashes and a mass on Saturday. I will
Never again see you in this life. Alice and I will take you home to your home town, to the
Cemetery in Oleiros, La Coruña, Spain this summer. There you will await the love of your life.
Who will join you in the fullness of time. She could not understand my tears or your passing.

There is one blessing to dementia. She asks for her mom, and says she is worried because she
Has not come to visit in some time. She is coming, she assures me whenever I see her.
You visited her every day except when health absolutely prevented it. You spent this February 10
Apart, your 61st wedding anniversary, too sick to visit her. Nor was I there. First time.

I hope you did not realize you were apart on the 10th but doubt it to be the case. I
Did not mention it, hoping you’d forgotten, and neither did you. You were my link to mom.
She cannot dial or answer a phone, so you would put your cell phone to her ear whenever I
Was not in class or meetings and could speak to her. She always recognized me by phone.

I am three hours from her. I could visit at most once or twice a month. Now even that phone
Lifeline is severed. Mom is completely alone, afraid, confused, and I cannot in the short term at
Least do much about that. You were not supposed to die first. It was my greatest fear, and
Yours, but as with so many things that we cannot change I put it in the back of my mind.

It kept me up many nights, but, like you, I still believed—and believe—in miracles.
I would speak every night with my you, often for an hour, on the way home from work late at
Night during my hour-long commute, or from home on days I worked from home as I cooked
Dinner. I mostly let you talk, trying to give you what comfort and social outlet I could.

You were lonely, sad, stuck in an endless cycle of emotional and physical pain.
Lately you were especially reticent to get off the phone. When mom was home and still
Relatively well, I’d call every day too but usually spoke to you only a few minutes and you’d
Transfer the phone to mom, with whom I usually chatted much longer.

For months, you’d had difficulty hanging up. I knew you did not want to go back to the couch,
To a meaningless TV program, or to writing more bills. You’d say good-bye, or “enough for
Today” and immediately begin a new thread, then repeat the cycle, sometimes five or six times.
You even told me, at least once crying recently, “Just hang up on me or I’ll just keep talking.”

I loved you, dad, with all my heart. We argued, and I’d often scream at you in frustration,
Knowing you would never take it to heart and would usually just ignore me and do as
You pleased. I knew how desperately you needed me, and I tried to be as patient as I could.
But there were days when I was just too tired, too frustrated, too full of other problems.

There were days when I got frustrated with you just staying on the phone for an hour when I
Needed to call Alice, to eat my cold dinner, or even to watch a favorite program. I felt guilty
And very seldom cut a conversation short, but I was frustrated nonetheless even knowing
How much you needed me and also how much I needed you, and how little you asked of me.  

How I would love to hear your voice again, even if you wanted to complain about the same old
Things or tell me in minutest detail some unimportant aspect of your day. I thought I would
Have you at least a little longer. A year? Two? God only knew, and I could hope. There would be
Time. I had so much more to share with you, so much more to learn when life eased up a bit.

You taught me to fish (it did not take) and to hunt (that took even less) and much of what I
Know about mechanics, and electronics. We worked on our cars together for years—from brake
Jobs, to mufflers, to real tune-ups in the days when points, condensers, and timing lights had Meaning, to rebuilding carburetors and fixing rust and dents, and power windows and more.

We were friends, good friends, who went on Sunday drives to favorite restaurants or shopping
For tools when I was single and lived at home. You taught me everything in life that I need to
Know about all the things that matter. The rest is meaningless paper and window dressing.
I knew all your few faults and your many colossal strengths and knew you to be the better man.

Not even close. I could never do what you did. I could never excel in my fields as you did in
Yours.  You were the real deal in every way, from every angle, throughout your life. I did not
Always treat you that way. But I loved you very deeply as anyone who knew us knows.
More importantly, you knew it. I told you often, unembarrassed in the telling. I love you, Dad.

The world was enriched by your journey. You do not leave behind wealth, or a body or work to
Outlive you. You never had your fifteen minutes in the sun. But you mattered. God knows your
Virtue, your absolute integrity, and the purity of your heart. I will never know a better man.
I will love you and miss you and carry you in my heart every day of my life. God bless you, dad.

— The End —