You built swings, and crosses for dead bees..
You made paths through the meadows, found the way to the beach..
You sang, and told stories; knew the funniest jokes..
You made ponytails and wiped away tears.. kissed bruises better and warmed frozen feet..
And how you’d swing the scythe through the grasslands, and shadow the field like a god…
Then you died, again.
I buried you a thousand times.
I dug the graves with my fingers.
Remember when grandma used to say, that at the end there’s only sorrow to share,
when the gates are locked and the paint stripping off the walls…
But you joke; you tell those silly stories
and I can almost see you sitting on the steps..
Mute tears wiped swiftly with a trembling hand.
And you laugh, hopelessly clinging to the pretense,
desperate eyes searching for her;
the little girl in her silly dresses
the red bows you tied in her hair.
I see you walking to the old well
your eyes lost now, your heart numb
If only the fields could engulf you..
If only that bottle wasn’t quite so far..
You’re my home, dad..
I’m sorry I never call…