I am going to work on my novel(s) today, I promise. But somehow I ended up with a poem early this morning. My dear writer friend, Martha, got me thinking about what we remember on a cellular level, and this happened. (And just to be clear, this is an analogy, and not about my dad. Take from it what you would.)
Daddy
They were different
She knew it in her cells
She was a blanket
He was a freight train
Into a room
Into a handshake
Into a woman
Confidence, he told her
While she watched him from her corner.
She knew he was different
She longed for him to know her
She was a garden
He was a battle flag
She followed him into the desert
Where he left her
She followed him into the cold
Where he left her
To find her way back
Persistence, he said
While she watched him from the doorway.
She knew he was different
She tried to understand him
She was a chess board
He was a drone
Busy
Very busy
Very busy making
Money
Sex
In the daylight
Charisma, he said
While she watched him from her bed.
She knew he was different
She was Galileo
He was a box
Others filled it
Longing to be a money sex box too
Leadership, he said
While she watched him from her grave.
He was different from her
Though ill
He lived
Though vital
She perished.
Peace.
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