This is a poem I wrote about my father. Its not the brightest or happiest picture... but a true painting of a shadow of a man.
There are moments captured above the mantel;
A man thin with laughter, an imp sprouting curls.
Ricocheting from land to lake,
Province by province ...
Now fifty five, and bearing specs,
There is a constancy below his gorilla haunch; A herniation.
And atop his head; round and empty clearings, a grey which wasn't there yesterday.
Often I find moulding canvases and dusty guitars,
Endless scribbles on parchment tucked away beneath the communal staircase,
A garage filled with brittle Da Vinci lecture books and weights still shrink-wrapped.
The whine of static in the air,
He's a rounding mound parked at the television,
With a practiced and empty stare.
In my youth I wasn't sure, now I'm convinced; without him, I wouldn't exist.
But without me;
He could have lived.