—
How many times have I
wanted to talk with you
since you died.
To tell you
that the closest I ever felt
to you
was when you taught
me to ride a bicycle.
My bike,
lustered with cream
and purple paint,
and you running alongside
helping me to balance.
And then letting go at just
the right moment,
allowing me to
pedal on my own
until I hit the parked car.
You, laughing your sides off,
and me a bit bruised
but proud
in my accomplishment.
Or to ask,
when I fell madly in love
at age nineteen,
with a beautiful young woman
with waist-length blond hair
and a lilt in her walk,
how you knew
you wanted to
marry Mom.
Or,
to tell you
how hurt I felt,
when you,
looking at my final college project,
a very large scale painting, said,
“You are trying to escape.”
While I thought
I was creating the world.
Sons don’t talk
like this
to their father,
until after he
has died.
7/25/16
—
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