when I was a young boy, I would often creep onto my father's bed in the late hours of the night if I couldnt, somehow, get myself to sleep. He would try, of course, to allay my fears and coerce me back to my own room (which I shared with my other brothers) but very soon, fatigue would overwhelm him and he would fall back into his deep slumber. And then, I would lie there, staring in the dark, listening to him snoring softly, feeling his warmth beside me.
If throughout my childhood and for most of my teenage years, i never really felt my father's presence in my life, it wasnt his fault at all. Being a man of little education, he had to work long hours each day to bring home enough income to support my mom and my three other siblings. The only times i could see him were in the mornings before he left for work and in the few hours before he retired to bed at night. My father wasnt a stranger to hardship... The weekends were not days to sit at home with his family but an opportunity to earn just abit more. As an individual, he was gregarious (often far more than that was necessary) and generous. There was no man whom he didnt see as a friend or that didnt possess a potential for goodness.
It's been almost four years since he left us... but sometimes, the memories of those few months before he passed away are as vivid as ever. I'm not really sure why suddenly I am thinking of him now in the wee hours of the morning... (though i do think of him frequently). Guilt? Remorse? Or just plain melancholia? Perhaps its all these reasons and more.
Whatever the case, I think I have trouble sleeping tonight...
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I remember how your skin felt
As cold and hostile as marble
as I pressed my lips against your rigid forehead.
I remember the scented flowers
strewn across the floor where they laid you,
and you,
wrapped in sheets, pure and white as fresh snow;
I remember the brown earth
That swallowed you…
and the beautiful setting sun that ornamented the sky
on that sacred Friday.
No more mortal suns shall you see; No more moons.
And we who are left behind,
Have only memories that dull with the years
And photographs in battered albums
As testament of your existence.
And now in feeble words
I try to frame the last remnants of a dream,
dreamed long ago.
So disjointed and garbled like puzzle pieces
That refuse to fit,
These fragments of memory.
It is not my intention
to push blame,
But Time is the thief who has stolen from me
The clarity of my memory.
---- circa 2003.
