Like Father, Like Son

Holding his naked head in my hands I felt a different man. 
His hands raised me as a child.
Now he was a child himself, broken and fragile.

The plain, at times distant man, who couldn’t speak the words “I love you,” was now a vulnerable old man, needing me, his son, to hold him and love him.

As I stroked his head, I saw his skin so close.  It frightened me.  
His hands had freckles just like mine. I recall as a child, drawing imaginary figures around those freckles with my fingers. 
Now these hands, that once wiped the spit from my mouth, were in my care.
This man, whom I loved so deeply was a stranger to me at that moment.  
That moment when I despised him for who he wasn’t.

But I knew he tried with all he had inside
What kind of man am I and why could he not lend his guide
when I was lost and afraid with no place to hide

All I needed was for him to say was, “Son, I’m sorry for your pain, I know it hurts and I wish I could make you feel better. I have no answers for you, but I have arms, a safe place where you can weep when its time to weep, and rejoice when its time to rejoice. Your tears are your strengths and your sensitivity is your manliness. I am here when you need me.”
This was all I needed but he was not able to do that. 

But still. I held him there in my arms and wept.  
His hands, so strong, still full of life.
Yet he too may have wept for what he never got from his father. 

I may have caused him grief. And his grief came from what he knew he could not give me.
The more we love our children, the deeper we grieve.
We know one day we shall leave them or god forbid, they leave us. 

The more we love, the more we grieve, knowing we have more to lose.

And so that day I loved this man, just for who he was.
I held his head in my hands as he fell asleep…
forever and forever he shall be my father and I his son.

dd- September 27, 2009