I sat there staring at the blanket of flowers
Laying upon my father’s grayish, silver casket
Roses, carnation, and tiny baby’s breath
The greenery accenting their beauty
It was closed.
I couldn’t see him.
Are you in there, Dad?
All I can see are the flowers.
A blanket of them keeping you safe.
The preacher’s words flew through me
Bringing tears to my eyes as he spoke
Still, I couldn’t take my eyes off of the box
Covered with a spray of beauty
Thinking this was still all a big mistake.
It wasn’t though.
You are really gone.
I miss you.
I need you.
I love you.
Watch now as the words come to me in rhymes
You’re my inspiration from deep inside.
You cover me with your love.
Your words guide me and lead me here.
Your my blanket of flowers keeping me safe.
Last January I lost my father, and it has been one of the hardest things that I have ever encountered in my life. The feeling that I will never be able to call him, hear his voice, complain about this or that…it’s overwhelming still after a year of him being gone. I think the word I am looking for to describe it is surreal. It still seems like he is there, and then I realize that he is gone. Losing a parent feels like a completely different loss to me than losing a friend or other family member.
Through every loss in your life though, you get something in return…at least that is how I think about it. I got back my ability to write again. Dad was a poet, and he had wisdom well beyond what I had ever imagined growing up. I admired him as my father, but I don’t think I saw him completely until I was sifting through my box of photos and his stuff that I brought back after the funeral. His poems were also in this box. I sat here for hours reading all of them. I learned so much about him that I never knew, and it brought tears to my eyes. As soon as I was done reading, I created this blog, and I have been writing for hours upon hours now…the only rest between was sleep. He inspired me to start writing again because it is what we have always shared with one another.
Growing up I would share my short stories and poems with him, and he would critique them in a caring but efficient way. Sometimes it made me so mad when he would give me direction on one of my stories, but as I look back, I appreciate that criticism. It was hard to take in. I was just a little girl…about 10 years old I would think looking back. I had no idea then that we would share the same passion for creativity and expressiveness.
His pen name was S.A. Kingston, and he was a brilliant poet and artist of words. He was my Dad, and I miss him dearly. I am thankful I have his poems to look back on and reflect on who he was because it is helping me find myself again.
So, here I am, Dad. I am writing again, and it feels really good. Thank you for giving me the inspiration to feel through my words again and share my creativity with the world. You are my light in the window of my soul. I will keep the candle burning for you.