| Every January, the date of my father’s death slaps me from the calendar, but this year in my life it catches me at the same age he was when the Friday the 13th fog swallowed him up in ’67. Back on that sorry night 45 seemed so very far away for me, maybe never to be met myself, but now I know the growing sting of middle age and hear the clock ticking louder, never ceasing, and I wonder how many more… how many more days I’ll waste the he could have made better use of, how many more miles would he have racked up in his deathbed truck while I stand still in a place I don’t want to be. But somehow, enjoying those days that he never had doesn’t seem right, either. Either way, I feel I am cheating him. |
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| Poemission |
| Unhappy Anniversary |