I am zipped up in Daddy’s green sweater.
Mom knitted, purled, cabled together
some semblance of love.
He wore it with joy almost every day,
telling all admirers how it was made with love.
It’s wrapped around me,
but it’s not his firm arms,
not his smell (which wasn’t peppermint
or aftershave, but just him),
not his whisper in my ears,
Love you so much.
How can another year have past
without him? How can a sweater
be both so full
and so bereft of him?
poem-when May 29, 2018
(An early Father’s Day poem)
When I was little
your face was behind a camera
capturing moments of my small life,
fearlessly climbing the steps on the tallest slide,
thigh high stretches for a toddler,
far above your head,
no pain had touched me.
Your greatest gift was security
to grow up confident in your love.
No one else ever loved me so well
or with such shameless devotion.
Oh, how great my loss.
When I miss you,
as I often do,
my memories are lit with