My dad is like a tree. Layered with the years that
grew him into a wizened oak. Rooted
in the soil of Nesbit, Mississippi and fiercely
devoted to the memories of his past. To the little shack of
a house that is now one with the woods – invaded by kudzu and
and stillness. You’d never know a whole life
was lived there.
If you were to saw my dad in half,
you would see the layers
that reveal the years gone by. Each ring a testament
to how he wraps his pinky finger
around my mother’s or how he cries at old country songs.
Some of the rings are barely noticeable
from the years that he withered away
in a job that he hates. But even though he got home
late he still had time to tuck me in,
and give me butterfly kisses. You can always count
on a tree to cover the ground with gold in the fall
and shine like diamonds in the snow.
Just the same - I know that my father tree
will not uproot and abandon me.
Comments