Father
Jun 21
2009
2009
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
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