Oh, My Goodness

My father's voice, a rumble of concern.
A childhood memory, sharp and vivid.

“Oh, my goodness”

The phrase hangs in the air,

a worn-out,

thread-bare surprise of frustration

 and love.

I was young,

 reckless.

A smashed thumb,

throbbing like a neon panic.

His weathered hands,

trembling with worry.
My small fingers, held tight.

'Oh, my goodness,' he repeated,

a tear-tainted murmur of despair.

Blood seeped beneath a shattered nail,

a tiny,

 agonizing death.

My first experience with loss,

a fingernail shedding its life.

A small death,

 a mirror to the vast emptiness of grief.

Years later…

His casket lowered into the earth as my tears flowed,

a grownup moment of courage,

a bittersweet echo.

'Oh my goodness,' I whispered,

 a lifetime of memories swirling.

The phrase a bridge between then and now,

 a reminder of love's enduring presence.

Such a tender ache,

a silent testament to the fragility of life

and the unwavering strength of a father's love.