eight o’clock and all’s not well

I sit
with memories of you
and in the moment
feel the joy
sorrow
terror
angst
that accompanies your presence.

In all that you were
and in those moments
of reflection
the word “parent”
may come to mind
but the word “father”
never does.

It is beyond difficult
to blend the streams
of the fear of one
and the reliance on another
into a single word.

‘Father’ is the God
that I cannot live without
no longer
the one
from whom
I seek freedom.

You were
who you were
and history
cannot be changed
but
it does not
require repeating
except in the ether
of my dreams
where I am locked
in the horror
of your presence.

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