This morning I remembered an old dream.
In the dream I am upstairs
In the house I grew up in
My father is outside
Standing in the rain.
Without words, I know he is waiting
For me to invite him in.
Did my son Jon
before he left on his sudden journey
the one that still feels like a one-way ticket,
share his inner being with me
or was I just the nearby one
deeply moved that he shared anything?
When my mind tries to shutter the future
puts up no trespassing signs
I know there were times when my son
was searching for evidence
that this world can sometimes listen.
Now, in the piling on of time,
I understand what a gift my father gave us
In his steadiness of being
Always coming home to his family
Mud on his hands in the garden
his words always kind.
Is it too late to ask you now
about all those frightening unknowns
that I buried in private silence
so like the ones that Jon shared with me?
Your dad sounds like mine.
I find this moving. I like the brevity. You choose the right words. The question at the end is revealing . So much to think on.