August 23 Sunday
Used to be quite the writer
I see from perusing old files
From a weathered box
There's more to my story
Than I can say or remember
"This is usually not this warm right now."
When my father died
And I saw how little remained
Of all the work he'd done
All the relationships he'd cultivated
And worry he had suffered
All reduced to a box of ashes
Two damaged sons
Three grieving siblings
A fading mother
And a pair of surprised wives.