The Tarnished Sun

I loved him with the passion
of a child – he was the sun
and I the golden calf – a mutual
worship, trust and respect.

His words were my sustenance,
mother’s lap busy with a baby,
older sisters reluctant to embrace
a half-sister and unasked for dad.

Reassured by his promises,
bolstered by his protectiveness
I felt his loyalty, committed to
reciprocating, so when he turned

on mother – his tongue a cruel
master – I faulted her too,
guessed she must be lower
than the exalted – he and I –

but as the tirades escalated
and the promises fell empty,
the tarnish began to show,
and I shifted allegiance –

intervened against maniacal
outbursts, tried to interject
sensibility, dissuade drunken
frays, the ferocity of his heat

no long warming, crushed
our family’s equilibrium –
he disappeared to soon
into the safety of death

left me reeling in the dark,
trying to decipher the codes
of his torment, the betrayal of
a father who was once my sun.


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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.

10 thoughts on “The Tarnished Sun”

      1. It doesn’t seem silly to me at all, V.J. Quite the contrary: It would be silly to ignore the past and try to carry on as if nothing had ever happened.

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