Echoes of Dad
It’s been days and I know he’s gone.
But so many things still speak his name.
In the hall, the books unused quietly call.
The picture on the wall stares back at me,
With eyes that pierce my reality.
His clock, it marks the passing
Not really noticing the emptiness,
but keeping vigil with a tick tock, tick tock.
A little piece of me goes with him.
Existing as a thread by which the memories run.
A time will come, they won’t hurt as bad.
A time I can say without the tears,
“I miss my dad!”
by R L Tilman- written a few days after Dad's passing
It’s been days and I know he’s gone.
But so many things still speak his name.
In the hall, the books unused quietly call.
The picture on the wall stares back at me,
With eyes that pierce my reality.
His clock, it marks the passing
Not really noticing the emptiness,
but keeping vigil with a tick tock, tick tock.
A little piece of me goes with him.
Existing as a thread by which the memories run.
A time will come, they won’t hurt as bad.
A time I can say without the tears,
“I miss my dad!”
by R L Tilman- written a few days after Dad's passing
