Dear Dad,

It was so good to see you again.
If you don’t realize this already,
I should tell you: I miss you.
I miss you very much.

Also, I know you know,
Mom, was both happy and sad
when we finally found your new home.
We searched in the hot sun for hours.
And even though she visits you
as often as she can, it gets
confusing for her now.

I am sorry it’s taken ten years
for me to come by your site again.
You are nearly 10,000 kilometers
away. I’ve never forgotten
how last I saw you
full of life and vitality.
And I keep expecting you
to reconstitute yourself.
But you can’t. I know.

Okay, so, I haven’t any serious excuses.
Other than, I’ve been duped and deluded
into paralysis of fear and disbelief, for not
really making the effort to drop a rock
on your stone or light a candle
and say my love and peace.

At the same time, your son,
you know . . . my oldest brother,
has always painted a grim picture
of the people who caused you
to sacrifice your life.

It made me angry. Made me refuse
to spend a dime in the place
and with the people
who took not just YOUR life,
but the lives of your friends
sixty years ago.

Yes, I know. We aren’t to
speak of those lives;
hung, like their photo’s,
at Acre.

They were your men.
They were freedom’s men.
They gave up their future
and their immortality
for a promised land.

So, I understand your guilt.
Your reasons why, for giving back.
For taking one last risk
to make that place that wasn’t
supposed to exist,
be a little more beautiful.
Be a little more real.

I understand you wanting to express
yourself, and show the world a diamond
chiseled according to way of Amnon.

But once you passed,
those you left to carry forth
your vision, insulted your intent,
by being weak and most of all
that vulgar creed . . . GREEDY!

I can hear you saying:
Enough already. In your vernacular.
Okay. So . . . from what you've taught me:

Nothing is beautiful
without true passion.

Happy New Year, Pop.
It’s been ten years
since last I spoke in your sanctuary.

And eleven, when you begged
not to let you die in a hospital.
To take you home.
Because you wanted to be THERE
for Rosh Hashanah.

I failed.


© 2009 Sara Coslett