I NEVER CRIED FOR MY FATHER

 

My father with my little sister,
the summer he died

I never cried for my father.

When he died, the summer

I turned 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,
a few weeks later,

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.

Sharing this with The Sunday Muse.