I was nine when my father cried

head cradled on mother’s shoulder

his father’s casket surrounded with flowers and hushed voices.

I did not know the old man

a stern German who shared little of himself

but my father cried.

Then when my father died,

remembered by his music and the Navy hymn

my own tears flowed – for my father, my sons, myself

so many words unspoken

so many hugs unshared

so many possibilities entombed …

© 2009 Janet Smith Warfield All rights reserved