The wosrt part is that I want to talk to him everyday. I want to all him every single day-- but I don't. I am going through such a devastating time and there is one person who gets it... so why wouldn't I want to talk with him everyday?

I'm scared. My father dropped dead. Alive one second, dead the next. What if this happens to my H?? What if this happens to T??? Anyone could go at anytime... when the person who you are closet to in the whole world just goes like that... you really become faced with the reality of our mortality... and how life can change in an instant.

I am writing a million things about my dad. I am putting together a collection, "Poems about my Father." I am also writing a book. In psychology, there is so much emphasis on the mother. I find little that focuses on the relationship with the father.
I want my writing not only to be in honor of my father, but the importance of the paternal relationship, both the positive and negatives.

Here is the newest poem:

Glasses

You let me borrow the watch,

and I am puzzled in a small space

between squares, keeping you

from timing trains.

Push down on the floor. The carpet is rough.

The garden hangs above his head.

You are coming home.

Saturdays are quiet. You are pulling luggage for the winter.

Obviously you can’t answer. There are too many sweaters.

You regulate sound with light. The car is there.

I hand you crackers.

I am soaking my leg. Fifteen minutes are up.

Fifteen minutes in the bucket.

I went to get coffee.

In New York, you were already dead.

They can’t remove the body yet.

Departure: Covered with sheet.

They left his glasses on the kitchen table.

He can’t see without his glasses.