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Post by glen on Jan 27, 2009 16:25:14 GMT -6
My father's ghost confronts me. "It's oleanders," he says. "Oleanders, not rhododendrons." After a lifetime of his correction, I know that he is right. The story was written in haste, The details lost in the inky emotions of grief.
My father is dead. Will I ever accept that fact? My savior, my rescuer, my critic, my challenge. The man I will never be as good as.
Even now, I hear him scolding me, One awkward tennis shoe twisted sideways as I stand, Torn between wanting to be with him and Wanting to be somewhere--anywhere--else.
"You're like a bearcub playing with himself." The first time it was funny. The twentieth time it was a brand of disapproval. I'll never be good enough, never good enough.
I miss him, as many others do. But what I miss most is something I never had.
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Post by kd on Jan 29, 2009 14:18:27 GMT -6
Wow, you learn alot about someone from their poetry. It made me want to cry. I love the line about the tennis shoe. The last line says so much about your relationship. I'm afraid I don't understand the comment about the bear cub. But I really love the poem.
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