My Santiago

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I had been painting, Badly as I always do, Clothes worn on impulse

Earlier in the day, Now bespattered!

Hopelessly freckled with paint, White, water-soluble, (but nevertheless stubborn, resistant) I had been painting! Being constructive, In the crisp sun of a winter’s morning, When the call came, That my father had died! Looking back now, A full five months since that phone call, I attempt to remember feelings But already, in that brief time, Clarity is blurred. Surely I felt pain and grief? And I sobbed uncontrollably? But no! I was calm, matter of fact, Unable to connect with the reality, That dad had left me, left us! In a small circle and said prayers for my dad, And tears forced their way to the surface And I wept for him, Or was it for my sadness? The finality, The iron wall of death, Where nothing gets through, Baffled me when I saw him later that week. But later that night, I sat with wife and son, My family, Death in the midst of a day for life!

Now at peace, The exterior of the man, Face unlined, Handsome aquiline nose