I was angry,
angry at the fact
that the last image I would ever have of you
would be of your ashes
poured out of a cheap, plastic bag,
the one before it no better -
you, motionless,
streaks down your cheeks and on the wall
and cold, so cold,
as the lake you are now a part of forever
with the north wind
turning my tears to paths of ice.

And yes, I cried;
Of course I cried -
I ran from my dry family
to sit solitary on sand-scoured driftwood,
the kind of place I would have found you, once
and a spider crawled along it
towards me;
I just looked at it -
you had always dealt with my spiders,
my monsters,
but you were gone.
You are gone.

I looked out onto the lake,
the lake turned your eternal grave
your frozen tomb,
ringed by the beach of tide-washed rocks
we used to gather together,
and every wave echoed my grief,
their soft roaring sussurations
crying out Why, Why, Why
as they washed on the rocks
and they flowed back out,
taking my anger with them,
and all that was left
among the cold and the pain
was a faint and fading I Love You.

02/06/2004

Author's Note: Topic from Joe Chiles. Another one about my dad. Not written dry.

Posted on 02/07/2004
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