.

I Wish It Were Just A Dream


When father created his masterpieces
we stood silently, afraid to breathe
and exhale the air of distraction.
Each carving detailed to precision,
then sanded with seasoned hands
carefully as if it were a soft shell.

It was a day before Christmas
when shock waves trembled,
vibrating father's picture to fall.
The frame seemed to withstand abuse
but the glass shattered on the oak floor.
It was one he made and inscribed,

“We are what we create”.

Beneath layers of refuge,
memories of father penetrated
to the day we learned about his fate.
No one could comprehend
and asked repeatedly,
Can one really drown in an inch of rain?

They say it was an accident;
he swerved to miss a stray dog
frighten by thunder.
Down a twenty-foot embankment
his body was thrown unconscious
into a puddle the size of a small decaying log.

When mother whispered in bewilderment, Why?
It seemed my father’s shoulders shifted
to form my frame. I felt ashamed;
Was I to become the man of the house
at the age of ten? How could I answer
when I didn’t understand?

My inner voice contemplated
the insanity of his fate.
I rationalized in agony
as I looked into mother's anguished face.
Only to conclude one thought,
There has to be a reason!