The wound still trickles
a sorrowing stream,
immune to time’s
Into his void
I summon the memories;
my cerebral escape,
if just for a moment.
My heart is perpetually sore;
it aches for just a little longer,
just a little more.
We forever want more;
in forever, there will be more.
All will be well — soon.
I miss you.
Copyright © 2021 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.
a pandemic reflection
Flesh and bone
the talk of the town.
Copyright © 2020 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.
My father died February 13, 2012.
To remember is to heal.
A requisite cycling of grief.
The remembering is terrifically awful.
In my mind are blood-red carnations
let loose amidst winter’s chill.
In fragrant tribute they softened the dirt of decay,
taunting death with the beauty of Hope.
Your mortality rests in mysterious completion,
enveloped in wood and cement.
Etched in placid formality is your name — our name.
You left us the fruit of integrity.
Immense is the void of you.
A reluctant child, I stand drop-jawed and small,
grateful, afraid —
This is hard, dad.
But you know that.
We all come to know this anguished separation.
Still, I long for more —
For another, “That’s my boy!”
For a glimpse of your wink and nod.
For the warm fullness of your squeeze on my shoulder.
Such are a father’s gifts.
You were generous.
A catalyst to my manliness.
Stability, strength, and tenderness.
Now it’s my turn.
Copyright © 2015 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.