M y  P o e m  F o r  D a d

by Cheryl McCall


His face white with death.
Perpetual breath stops.
His eyes close to the world,
opening the eyes of all who love him.
I pull the sheet up over his coldness
to cover my own sorrow.


I stand back watching my family’s heartache.
I only feel numb.
I have lived with him all my life
but I only recently discovered who he was.


The overpowering fragrance of crimson roses, white poppies, and asphodels
sickens me more than seeing his stiff spiritless body.
He wears a navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie.
Hundreds pay their respects.
I overhear stories of what a wonderful man he was,
how their lives were better for knowing him.


My family still heartbroken.
I am still numb.


Cars line up like dominoes,
the little orange flags waving in the frigid wind.
It is snowing.
Winter yard scenes consist of snowmen soldiers, forts,
father/daughter snowball fights.


He loved snow.

The journey ends.
The convoy of mourners depart relinquishing me to solitude.
Standing at the edge staring down at the silver box encasing him
my mind flashes slide projector memories.
I need to run
as I battle images of adult disregard for my father
against my inner child.


The child wins.
I allow only the tears of the child
since the adult only recently discovered who he was.