My Father's Hand
Life draws its closing upon us in unsuspecting ways
From our first awareness of
Wrinkles, gray hairs and grandparents.
But we are the perpetual children,
The ever-young, the unaware,
Unprotected and unready for the dying.
And so we look again for our parents, remembering their
Busy meddling and over-concern with our lives, wondering,
Were they ever young? Do they even remember?
How quickly it all passed, from
My mother's death to my father's deathbed;
Why can I not bring him back to give him just
One caress for all of his that I ignored?
How do I tell him, in one pride-transcending touch, that
He is my hero - my world? If love be pure, give me, for just this last, enduring
Moment, one final touch of my father's hand.
So lonely do you sit
Placed in the corner of a room
In a proper chair facing an empty wall.
Your feet will never reach the floor
For you were so placed for your
And have been sitting ever since.