Sunday, January 28, 2018

"Father"

At the funeral home before we left for the cemetery
Father

It was bitter cold beneath the canvas tent,
flaps drawn against the wind
a few feet from my father
enclosed for all eternity.

Chins and noses tucked into scarves,
hands gloved, pocketed into wool and down -
no reaching out, no holding one another.
Our solace was inward, reserved

careful to balance our feelings
if we dared take them out at all -
the fragile connections our eyes made
were difficult enough.

Thank God for my son,
his shirtfront wet with tears -
grieved openly for us all.

I give thanks for my sisters, my mother
who were there for Dad in the end
as I'd fled far away, decades ago -
never bending to the need
to set things right.

I don't feel guilty,
not yet.  I offer prayers for him -
hope that's enough.  It's a beginning
for healing and a continued promise
my children will never doubt
I love them.

by Margaret Bednar, January 28, 2018

for "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Get Listed: Landslide Month"  words: solace, inward(ness), need, thanks.  

6 comments:

Kerry O'Connor said...

careful to balance our feelings
if we dared take them out at all -

Perhaps in poetry, we dare to take our feelings out. A painful read, Margaret, but a necessary one.

Sanaa Rizvi said...

This is so poignant. I can feel the ache and longing in your words, Margaret. Sending love and light your way.

Angie said...

Margaret, I'm saddened for you and your loss in the middle of winter which set your chins inside of your scarves. I hope your prayers will be lifting those same chins in good time. Mourn and grieve Margaret. Death is so surreal, is it not? Finding your way through the fog is difficult. Sorry you have to go through it.

annell4 said...

It is always cold under the tent, no matter the season.

Log Cabin Studio said...

So sorry for your loss.

Raining Iguanas said...

Something about your words here that touched me deeply. Special piece.