"My dad's dead,"
comes a little voice
from the back seat.
"I know.
We all miss Papa, don't we?"
"I don't miss him."
"You don't?"
"No, because I see him
in my dream.
There is a door,
and I go through,
because he wants me with him,
and I say to him,
'I love you, Papa,'
and then we're happy."
Silence and reflection,
while I remember:
"Unless ye become
as little children,
ye cannot enter
the kingdom of Heaven."
I had written something else for the Pantry at Poets United, which this week is honoring fathers. But last night this conversation happened, and I doubt there could be a sweeter expression of love for a father than this little guy's.
