I was just going to post this picture. No words would accompany it. Put it online, yes, but only I would know how much the memories hurt. How deep run the scars...
"By profession, I am a soldier and take pride in that fact. But I am prouder, infinitely prouder, to be a father." ~ General Douglas MacArthur
With the pretty yellow dress, my sister. Next to her, my father.
Pain... We'll get to it in a moment.
"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was." ~ Anne Sexton
Finally, I convinced my mother to "lend"me some of her poems. And the blog wil soon break the surface. Everything is set. I only need to transcribe them and post away. And I had, the brilliant idea to get some old pictures of her. To put them in her profile as I have done with mine.
We must go get the pictures from my father's house. You'd think it wouldn't hurt. That it wouldn't... register. That, the years of separation, the distance at with you live your life, the abscence of thought, would shelter and filter any feeling, any emotion.
In a sense, that's what happened. No feeling. A void. A null. Not even hate. How could there be? When the man that was my father was just that. Just a man. Frail, when he seemed to be so strong. Gone when he had seemed so lucid. Harmless, when he had seemed so fearful. Alone, when he had seemed surrounded.
"A truly rich man is one whose children run into his arms when his hands are empty." ~ Anonymous
I would write more, but I fear the scars are not well healed. And the hurt runs alongside the blood, ready to spring forth... as well as tears...
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