We all have the stories.
Here are 3 of mine
in a few words.
Kids too . . .
Pieces strewn about
were just guys and dolls
(other cultures have them)
when our shells landed
blowing the tenants
decades later I visited him
in St. Vincent’s hospital
not knowing he’d die
just 3 days later.
the anger towards dad simmered
from the early days of pain,
lies and suffering.
At his bedside some force
(my own?) laid my hand on his
and words were plucked out loud,
“Dad, I forgive you for all the things
I think you did to me, and myself
for hating you all these years.”
The weight that instantly lifted
with those heartfelt words
has me crying now.
Opening doors of a shuttered mind
has taken work and trusted hands
of others to help Fred rise again.
from thoughts of departing
this home named earth
for new adventures.
Some letting go’s are dug in deep,
like allowing an other to pierce
the web of words I use
to keep my heart
Close-up intimacy is the action I avoid
when fear takes hold and trust dissolves
from old stories being held onto a bit less.