When We Meet in Heaven, Dad

I picture it: a convention –
where like minds congregate,
learn from one another,
aspire to betterment

A conference of healing,
dedicated to those newly
passing on, like limbo,
only educational.

Imagine my surprise, then
should you be there, Dad –
you who’ve never before
attended my performances

I’ll attempt to stifle the
discomfort, suppress doubt,
cherish the moment,
but I know you too well

will catch the gist of
your duplicity, easily
recognizing self-serving
motivations, feel the rage –

intact despite the body’s demise –
intent on tracking you down
one final confrontation
to elaborate on the deplorablity

of your manipulative ways,
your brick-wall tactics,
the cruelty of absenting
yourself from a child’s needs

would check the registry –
surely they have a registry
in Heaven – will not find
your name listed there

In an aha moment, think
to find you under an alias –
I’d be right – stand at the door
of your chamber, inflated

righteousness ready to
denounce you for eternity,
feel the strike of bolt-like
revelation, decades of wrath

disintegrating into sorrow,
sudden clarity washing over me,
as you open the door, hesitant
to receive me, I’ll declare:

“Dad, it’s okay – I accept you
just the way you are;  I just
don’t want any more
distance between us!”

(Image: dorotheacarney.com)


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Permission to write, paint, and imagine are the gifts I gave myself when chronic illness hit - a fair exchange: being for doing. Relevance is an attitude. Humour essential.

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