Father’s Day just went past, I waved; said hello and goodbye at once
spent a moment inside my head thinking about the world, about
places and people far removed from me, from where I see feel hear
Felt the heat of an Afghanistan sun burning sand burning breezes, small
stones huddled against the camouflage hem of a soldiers pant leg, against
dirt and dry skin; an occasional fly wafting across sightless eyes, across
oceans and time a father cries.
Saw empty lots in the city with weeds spreading the faith, spread like
broken glass, spread like the outstretched arms of another lost son, another
soul left dangling between birth and death with prison and pain the only
future proposed by a single mother fighting an addiction.
Heard the shrill call of fanciful colored birds in lower canopy rain forest
trees, above cages where men are chained, humid days and wetter
nights waiting for a political end to an economic war while fathers
read lies in newspapers and close their eyes against tomorrow.
Smelled the burning of rubber as tires spun round on destroyed
Mercedes left as a present from another martyr, another lost soul, another
ink stain on newspaper meant to be something big and bold but, as
always, is just another dead son, daughter, mother…father
They say the future is written with the blood of those defending the past
and I can’t say yes or no but I see in my head…thinking about the world
that fathers will see sons and daughters die, will see the effects of
hatred, feel the gravity of death inexorably pulling them along
I see in my little world, my corner, my eye shut almost tight against the light
that when you look at the distance between father and son, father and daughter
when you feel the break of dawn in that small world of breathing and living
tomorrow thinking becomes unaffordable for today…
…and power and politics and sand and stones and chains and cages, trees and sun;
everything…means exactly nothing to a grieving father.