Now that I am 73 and slowing down
I find myself rethinking my father,
Who he was in his later years when,
To my discredit, I often profiled him
As an old, sometimes pathetic, tired man.
Just lately (maybe it's all these rainy days)
I have been receiving salient
Sweet and bitter,
Private foggy-edged
Fly-on-the-wall glimpses
Of my father during those years
When he was slipping away.
It is as if I had to pass a certain marker or milestone
(Well into the 13th year after his passing)
Before I could accept my father as old!
Something like microdosing the mushroom,
Except that the mushroom is my heart
Offering little doses of what I missed.
(OK, I'm listening. I'm all in, I'm ready.)
This is not about me,
(Beating myself up for not having been a better son)
This is about my father
Who he was
When I was losing him to old age,
Who he really was, that I was blind to see.
Every time he lost another faculty or life skill
It felt like I was falling behind,
But it was actually me accelerating.
Moving way too fast for him to keep up.
Now that I am slowing down
My heart is saying,
Sit down. I have an album
Of your father
That you have never seen.
