Father - A rewrite

FATHER And so, all is forgiven In death. And the decade that has passed since your passing has diluted my memories of your gruffness. And the recollections of how you cold-shouldered each of my boyfriends are faded now, as is the sting from your stern “Nos!” Yes, time and age are the great mellowers, for just as I am no longer as I once was- not the young rebel, not the wild militant- so too, I can now see your complexity, the whole of the man that was, the multidimensional you. Oh, I know that 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 bought. This gift of sorts originated with you- teller of stories, lover of language and it became my manna in the wilderness- my sweet, bubbling 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 nonetheless. So it was, that the exquisite flower of poetry bloomed for me, in a place so seemingly barren as I recalled your teaching me the opening lines of the Aeneid in Latin, and sitting in my cell, it became a mantra for calling the muse. “Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris Italiam fato profugus Laviniaque venit Litora, multum ille et terris iactatus et alto Vi superum, saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram.” And it was there that first put pen to paper in a creative burst born of you. So we are- weavers of words, and we 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 to late- or, perhaps not.