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December 26, 2015



I would walk miles with my father,

when as a tot, reaching his thigh.

He would ruffle my hair in fondness,

as I grew to waist high.


We would clown about and play-fight,

and arm wrestle and compete,

when twelve became thirteen,

and teenage years came to greet.


I grew bolshi and arrogant,

and anything but shy,

when him I could stand next to,

almost shoulder high.


But as time passed, we buried

the misunderstandings of my youth.

Becoming close buddies again,

now me, less uncouth.


And for a short time we were able

to stand eye to eye,

before he, in a wheelchair,

now reached to my thigh.


We were pals to the end.

I had at last made him proud.

And the day that I lost him,

I unashamedly cried out loud.





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