My mom suggested I write about good things. So here is another one.
You are a writer,
and so am I.
We have hands that look older than we are,
wrinkled with good use.
Writer's hands.
You see people.
I remember, in the darkest of my days,
you coming home from a
too-long day, visiting someone in the hospital,
comforting a grieving family, a pastor in the purest
sense of the word, your eyes soft with compassion.
You have bad eyesight,
but you taught me to see.
You listen.
Do you remember that day,
the darkest of your days,
when you found out mom had breast cancer
and I called you, curled alone on a
hallway floor, weeping?
You wept with me.
You know what love is.
My longest relationship
has been a year and a half, tops.
You have loved your wife,
in sickness and in health,
for over 30 years.
That is the kind of love
I pray for the courage
to seek and to find.
We argue and discuss and disagree,
but did you know that you are the only man
I know who, after an argument,
will send me a text message saying,
"I love you."
From the depths of my
restless, depressive, anxious,
vagabond heart I send you
this blog poem in reply,
"I love you too."
