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Part of the Series: Poetry of Life, Death & the In-between

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On the Gradual Death of of a Father

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Summary:
Father’s Day has me wishing I could call him up. That’s something people don’t often mention about grief—it gets easier with time but never just goes away.
This entry is part 35 of 45 in the series Poetry of Life, Death & the In-between


Death comes in the winter
When all is grey & white & cold
Whether stealthily or raucously
Gnawing or pouncing
Prowling for entrails
Frigid
Final
Leaving empty beds and empty arms
Reminders of the empty holes
In the long-empty hearts
It’s icy fingers creep along the soul
Waking long-dead musings

…they buried them in the spring…

Yet for him
No grave will be dug
For some winters never End.

 
Originally published 6th Dec 2021 | Edited 20th Feb 2025
It was in the winter that I realized we had started the death watch as my father was being consumed from the inside out by cancer. The first line was borrowed from a friend & poet with permission.  “They buried them in the spring” is a reference to something I had read during my college days regarding one of the great plagues in history (I forget which one) where the deceased could not be buried until the ground had thawed sufficiently to dig their graves. My father was cremated so “no grave”.
 
After many prompts & renditions AI managed to satisfactorily redesign 3 photos from my last days with Dad. I chose the style of Picasso’s blue period because it demonstrates how much the death of a loved one can affect the ways we think, create & prioritize.  Also, his style really captures the life of poverty and how much it forms an individual as it did with my dad. The “I ❤️ Grandpa” mug in the 2nd picture was crafted by my son for the Grandpa he sadly won’t remember. 

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    4 COMMENTS

    1. Wow, this will just twist your heart out. I love the poem. Very descriptive. It uses the seasons as a subtle simile to circumstance. The artwork is effective as well. It’s a great presentation.

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