The first born
of the first born
of the first born
of the first born
will always be
my baby.
#BecauseFatherhood #HappyBirthday
Who am I? Father,/
son, friend, writer. Above all,/
I’m a Child of God.
T’was a few nights before Christmas
and I was feeling
sorry for myself,
seeing all my friends
and relations
surrounded by kids
and grandkids,
hugging each other,
decorating the houses,
trimming the trees,
making Christmas cookies,
fudge,
candy,
and other
wonderful
treats,
filling their homes
with the joyful laughter,
singing,
and sweet smells
of the season.
Then I remembered
what I had,
and who,
and arose out of my pity bed,
sprang to the kitchen,
pre-heated the oven
and made cookies
and my traditional
sweet-smelling apple crisp
for my mother.
At 1:26/
a.m., 33 years past,
Itty-Bitty came.
I was IMing my youngest son, and the conversation turned toward what he could do for his mother’s upcoming birthday. I wrote this as a prompt for his music.
Happy Birthday,
IFK.
She was surprised/
when I came./
Unexpectedly/
a blessing in her/
age,/
a comfort, /
one more step/
back/
into her golden-haired/
youth./
Stong I became,/
and protected her/
as she guided me,/
shielding each other/
from life’s awful realities./
She always lifted/
and loved/
and supported/
and guided/
and nurtured/
and believed./
And now that I’m /
gone,/
she still does./
And she will always/
pray/
for me,/
because I/
am her,/
and hers,/
alone.
“Don’t stop believin'”/
means even more now to me/
than it did before.
Is the pain our son/
feels like the pain you felt when/
I left? I’m sorry.
“She left.” That’s all my/
son had to say to unleash/
floodgates of heart pain.