A Cage To Hold My Dreams
Weaponry Of A Murderous Calibre
I cannot believe that he would go off without
saying goodbye.
Fathers are supposed to be indestructible
They can only be killed by fires and natural disasters
And weaponry of a murderous calibre.
Am I expected to believe that this sealed coffin
contains the kindest, least devious man
who ever lived ? Couldn't he have simply gone for a walk
or slipped out for a drink with his friends ?
The relatives gathered round his bedside assure me
that he just lay back and surrendered his spirit.
'Like a man sitting down to Sunday lunch',
they said, 'there was no protest, no self-pity,
no terror at the back of the eyes.
It will take more than a dozen eye-witness accounts
to convince he that he's not propping up
his favourite saloon bar. He'll walk in, any minute now,
grinning like a good luck charm
at having once again accomplished the unexpected.
I remember the joy on his face when we started
to rebuild our lives after six years of enforced separation.
That was twelve years ago. Only twice
the time which we had lost. Not nearly enough time
to put into words all the things which mattered between us.
Had only I realised the precious quality of those years
I would have held them in total reverence.
His was a difficult soul to penetrate.
I didn't try hard enough to get to know him. It was easier
to talk smart and ridicule his point of view.
He was a man unnerved by displays
of sincere affection, a survivor from the days when love
between men was held in sealed containers.
I never had the courage to kiss him, even when
I wanted to. It never crossed my mind until tonight
that he might have been secretly pleased.
There is so much I realise now that I wanted to say
to him but the time was never right.
How will I ever get over this terrible longing for one more
glimpse of that weathered face ? My life has been
shattered like bone china crashing on a stone floor.
It is the unbreakable silence between us that will hurt
the most. Never being able to say to him that he was right,
or that I understand now why so many things
I wanted as a child had to be withheld. And how
being born to him gave my life such an enviable beginning.
Dying young has robbed him of knowing where
I stand today on the issues that we argued about.
It would amuse him greatly to discover that I am on
his side now more times than not.
All those tomorrows without his reassuring handclasp
will be very hard to get through.
Not that I believe for a moment I have seen the last
of him. He has only gone to the corner shop
for some tobacco. Any minute now the door will open and
he'll say, 'Guess who I've been talking to ?'
And those terrible lies about him being dead
I shall throw back in their ugly, scheming faces.
