MY DAD

It occurred to me today
and it hurt me to my soul
I can't hear your voice in my head.

So many questions I wanted to ask you

and we ran out of time.
Those last months we tried to

make up for the days we couldn't have.

A hundred years wouldn't do.

I would give a year of sunny Sunday mornings just to sit with you once again; to listen to you tell a really long joke, to watch you try not to laugh, to see you look over your glasses and complain about the gas prices. To see you sleeping in your chair, to watch you nibble on a baby's ear, to hear you sing "Lucille," to watch you run your silver comb through your hair.

The last conversation we had ended in "I love you too, Winker".

But I didn't know it would be the last time you'd say it to me.

The next day you were zonked out on morphine and breathing slow and raspy. I took your comb and combed your wavy, now white, hair and told you it looked good. I knew there would be no answer. But two single tears rolled down your cheek. One was yours and one was mine. No breath came then. I said "I love you Dad" and put the comb in my pocket.

This is for my Dad who died along with a piece of my heart April 29, 1998.