Tag: father

At the end of the driveway, we waited.  

I was still chasing after my father —

a man who never wanted to carry that label, 

who wore his defiance like a well-tailored suit.

He was my town, adorned with a 

shimmering crown made from 

razorblades and lies.  

Their brake lights shone like nebulae 

frozen in a night sky — long forgotten, 

yet so desperate to remain seen.

She told me not to come,   

banned me from his home.  

I shrunk from her emerald gaze,

turning a mirror in place of 

the other cheek for ten years.  

Never a word from them — 

No calls —

          No cards —

                    No contact — 

as it had been my entire life.  

I could not approach my dying father, 

but he would wave to me.  

Wave to his only daughter, 

the only one who defended him — 

               Out of love —

	Out of fear — 

Out of shame —

to hide that she was undeserving of love.  

With tears dripping off my cheeks, I waved — 

each of us behind windshields.  

A final wave through distorted panes.

A silent goodbye to years of pain.

A silent hello to years more.