I did not mail a card or letter
though his heart beats,
his chest lifts from shallow breaths
I called days later
obligation recognizes his birth
a man becoming my father's ghost
I did not toast
to memories overpowered
by today's overriding reality
He, a younger vibrant man
fades to pale unknowing
and I have failed showing
Love holds his memory, slipping
I must cup my hands
catching what seeps from this moment
His wife does so well
her love bleeding for the one who held her
she holds him so tenderly
My memory sheds him
frail man sitting in a chair,
barely knows when I am there
We speak with ghosts
our children staring
all hands cupped catching memory.
Gregory Zeorlin 7/29/2005 7:53am
Cupped Hands
Copyright 2005 Gregory Zeorlin
