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remember your father

Updated on October 16, 2014

you are awakened at 3 a.m.

by a thunder-storm, and a

down-pour, and a heavy

knowledge of sad-ness,

seeping down hard and

into every waiting gap.

you didn’t realize you were

waiting, wanting something

to push its way in and pull

you apart, to tear you off

your tidy little course and drown

you in the wild invisibles.

your father was dying four years

ago at this very time, under

this very rain. there is a strange

comfort in the lining of this loss,

a continuing kin-ship, a bond

that is still being tied. everything

that has ever happened, that is happening,

that is going to happen is all here:

braided into this trinity knot

you twist between your fingers.

the knob of it reassures, takes you to

places where you have the permission

and capacity to truly see, and feel, and be.

it is no wonder you dream of flying,

carrying the treasure-package of

past/present/future clutched to your chest.

you are relieved of its weight

by just a fraction of the knowledge of

its maker. more than the knowing is

the feeling that takes over and drives

you home, every time. you let go and

let it take you; it knows the way.

you close your eyes and breathe in sleep

and remember your father.

© 2014 Michelle Warner


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