Father

And so, all is forgiven in death. And the decade that has passed since your passing has diluted my memories of your gruffness. We all mellow with age. I too, am no longer as I once was - not the young rebel, not the wild militant. Thus, I can now see your complexity, the whole of the man that was, the multidimensional you. Oh, I know that I was your colossal disappointment and how that gnawed at you, like the cancer that claimed you. But why not? For I never ascribed to true glory, only infamy; Still, am I really just a former femme fatale resigned to nothingness? Or is there a redemption, a saving grace even for me? And father, you understood this sparkle of promise and it almost erased the shame I brought. This gift of sorts originated with you - teller of stories, lover of language and it became my manna in the wilderness - my sweet, buubling oasis in my desert of prison. And you, father, 50's freedom fighter passed the torch to me - penitentiary poet and I took it in trembling hands with the flame sometimes flickering and dimming but burning nontheless. So we, weavers of words have our link now - besides blood. And this craft that is ours binds us through time and history and now transcends even your grave it is a redemption between us coming too late - or, perhaps not.