My father, with my little sister
I never cried for my father.
When he died, the summer
I was fourteen, I felt sad
for my mother, whose heart
was broken. But I felt relief
that the drinking to blackout
and the violence had stopped.
I had closed him out,
that last year; we had
unfinished business, so
I was not much surprised
when I saw his ghost
smiling at me from behind
the lunch counter at Capri,
perhaps a smile to say
he had loved me
and wished me well.
He was a brilliant musician
who raged that those
with less talent passed him by.
He hated rock and roll.
I never cried for my father
at his funeral. But I cry
for him now. He gifted me
music and humour and song
that has lasted my whole life long.
And I never said thank you
when he came to tell me
goodbye.
We share a similar past … this is beautifully crafted, Sherry.
ReplyDeleteSuch an honest poem that relates to all of us in different ways. I've lost family members and it is uncanny how you have closure with some before they pass.
ReplyDeleteI think there is so much about an artist's soul that is incredibly sensitive. That said, as a society, we don't recognize the disease aspect of alcoholism. I never drank in that that disease affected several people I grew up with knowing and it is a terrible disease.
That is a very moving poem, Sherry. Honest, filled with feeling. It is good that, in the end, you can appreciate the gifts he gave you, despite his flaws.
ReplyDeleteGrief has different faces. You have resolved the turmoil he caused and now can appreciate his gifts. That is beautiful.
ReplyDelete