September 25, 2011

For My Father

Like father like daughter, we hide
behind gray puffs of smoke,
crave the acrid spice of nicotine.
His is Misty menthol,
mine Misty light.

A nasty habit that oddly comforts me
as once a month arrived
a slim white envelope
bearing his handwriting,
tidy, neat and even strokes
like ripples on a pond,
mailed from Pennsylvania
to Carolina, where cigarettes
were half the price.

I fed his addiction,
a ruse to keep his letters
binding him to me,
by a long distance cord
of a slim white paper cigarette.
Always bringing back,

Pictures in my mind,
scattering in slow motion through
a kaleidoscope, where
I could see him young with hair
untouched by grey,
tall and strong,
my anchor in the wind.

Take me for a ride daddy,
and he lifts me up into the air
high above his head
I will never let you fall,
higher still he thrusts me to the sky
beyond the billowy puffs of clouds
Now just reach for any star,
they’re all yours, he said
then taught me how to make them mine.

I went away to gather tiles
to build the mosaic of my life,
minutes vanished into days
years withered into air,
his hair now grey as evening sky,
bent and weak, he is
a pillar toppled by a winter breeze.

The letters stopped years ago, but in my    
mind  they still come
connecting us by a long distance cord
A slim white papered cigarette -
his is Misty menthol, mine is Misty light
and when night time shadows fall,
billowy clouds  will always smoke
behind the stars that he made mine. 

I love you daddy

No comments:

Post a Comment