Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I sometimes wish
we conversed more
you and I,
but we rarely did.

We both preferred
the silence
to over talk;
each shared

a Stoic philosophy,
Spartan in our ways,
even in our former days.
Sometimes, my son,

I wish I had said more
and you to me,
but it wasn't our way;
I guess we were

more alike
than I thought,
preferring reason,
to emotional turmoil,

preferring the calm
before the storm,
our quiet hand
upon the helm of ship,

our steadiness
against the tides
of trudging time.
I wish that we

had said more in words
to each the other
over the recent years,
before your death

had silenced you,
before the grief set in
and tore
at soul and mind.

I still converse with you,
my son,
but in a different
manner now,

more open,
more expressive,
knowing you will hear
in your quiet way,

even after death,
after days, months
and years, after hurt
and pain and tears.

I wish sometimes
we conversed more
you and I,
that we had said

the things that now
I wish to say,
but we were more alike
than I thought then,

not just father and son,
but kindred
philosophical
gentle men.

the conversation continues

Indeed it does, still-trucking

when they were here amongst us, we felt there would always be time to converse... tomorrow or next week, maybe next month...it didn't matter... time enough to talk from the heart, baring the soul... but one day, one day too soon, it comes to an end.

the rude ending that leaves us as we always knew, deep down within.. the anticipation of sorrow that we knew we would have to face when 'that' day arrived, our sorrow bags quickly packed and ready to take us where we grieve. and boy, do we grieve! one large load of baggage that we've been carrying with us for this day. We live it as we always thought we would, rehearsed it many times in those quiet moments when we should have been talking to each other... but we didn't and now we pay for it.

they know. they weren't any different than ourselves... same baggage, same regrets, same pastel sorrow that weeps silently while within, the caverns of our mind, the echoes of our loss ricocheting off the walls loud enough to grab us by the neck and look at ourselves deep into our eyes and scream "dammit... why did I? why didn't I? it looks so easy now that they are gone."

life is for the living. that was something I once heard and never forgot. as long as we are living, we are dying within. as long as we are living, we owe it to the living to offer compassion and understanding to the best of our ability to those who we live with before we leave with words unspoken, sitting upon a shelf collecting dust, the same dust that our bodies return to after we leave...

thanks for your words, dadio... they inspired me...

Thank you for reading & comments. Mtmynd