Father

The hour was 2:32 AM. Something woke me in a panic. A lot of my nights have been like this. I look to the coffee table where his body resides. I think to myself; he is just dust in a tin can and I can't fathom it.  What happened to his face; his face, molded like clay by another man's hands for all of us to see before his body was burnt to a crisp. His body...burnt...to a crisp...such a hard concept to grasp but it is so real. My father and I had two or three real conversations in his lifetime. In moments I felt as if I really knew him. I was able to make sense of who I was in comparison to him. There was strength behind my fathers voice and when he spoke his words shook me alive. I loved him. I don't even think I knew how much until now but these sleepless nights are difficult; the body leaks a sad, hot sweat and the eyes cry tears one cannot even feel as fear sets in. He's not haunting me.  It is death that is and the fact that I have had to realize the depths of my own humanity. I am selfish. I want him here for one last time. I want to tell him that robber named alcoholism stole his soul and I'll never stop believing in him. He could have won. He had the strength. Time shut its doors and advised it was much too late. I want to tell him what I've learned from him about life, love and music. I mostly want to talk about the music...the sounds of his heart to be specific; those beautifully troubled tunes were all I ever knew but the harmony has become unforgettable. At this hour of  night, the silence only gets louder and louder. I see him everywhere; his yellow eyes, that pale, yellow frailness he portrayed the last two weeks of his life and the grunts of pain he denied. I don't want to hold another lifeless hand the way I held his. I remember saying I didn't want to carry my father's name but now I realize...it is one of the only things I have ever done right.