On The Anniversary of His Death

No amount of empathy
could help me understand
the storm inside my father

Even in his death, thoughts
cloud my writing, his presence
preserved in prose…

(Even though it’s been fifteen years, my father’s essence remains strong – sometimes taunting, sometimes inspiring, always mysterious.)


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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.

24 thoughts on “On The Anniversary of His Death”

  1. ‘The storm inside my father.’ I think its this particular characteristic of fathers- of not talking about themselves that makes them mysterious and leaves you wanting more, even years later. I feel like that about my dad too who I lost last month.

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  2. I think the older we get (if we’re lucky) the more curious we become about our parents and wonder what made them tick. And of course we curse ourselves for not asking more questions when we could. Lovely, evocative poem, VK. Touches a universal chord, for sure.

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  3. Things I would never have dared ask my dad haunt me … if only I had asked, had known him better … I was still in high school when he abruptly departed.
    I too have some things that seem to insist on prose vs poetry.

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