I sat alone in their living room
beside their christmas tree
with none of my ornaments that I could see,
their strange cats licking each other in a far corner.
I didn't even know their names.
The wind whistled at the window,
overdramatizing a deadly quiet night.
My ex-wife and my ex-children were asleep.
Ex-children in spite of my frequent visits.
They are not mine anymore. They belong to
another world now, as far away as stars.
Oh, Vassar. But that I could have had
your way of saying what I feel.
Could I have been a better father as
a carpenter, coming home tired at night,
sitting in my chair, listening to their stories
and telling them mine?
They will sit with me one day and
we will talk of their childhood and
they will say, "Daddy, we never stopped
loving you." But love is not an afterthought.
It cannot be said.
They are spirits now, even when I
hold their budding bodies in my arms.
--Bryan, Texas 1984
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