a hidden pain : original copy*

* this is the original copy i wrote about my dads death,  to all readers,  i warn that it is descriptive and honest.  so please read with caution.  the other copy of  “hidden pain”  is an actual short story, and this is more in poem form.  and this will be the last i write about my dad.  thank you for reading.

. . . . i stand from where i was sitting.  the grass,  dry and thirsty.   i close my eyes,  and take a deep breath.  to feel the breeze,  the sunshine on my face,  i am here.  you lie beneath the shade of the oak.   grass,  brown and dry from summers drought.   its been thirteen years since i last saw you.  it’s our own personal drought,  sought and lost.  off in the near distance,  the locus sing.  silently,  the breeze passes by,  cooling the easy of the shade.   gently,  a leaf falls unto the ground below.  the shine of the sun peaks through the trees leaves and branches, and blocks my vision.  //  is it you that hold the answers that i long for,  as the questions pile,  as my life ages.   silence makes noise,  in my ear,  forever in my head.   your guidance,   your wisdom comes forth as the song of the birds. //   the conversation that we have,   my mind turning to that night.   what was your thought,  while you took your final breath?   eyes wide open,   you didn’t even see me try to help you.  lying there motionless,  helpless,  i felt the same.   when the desire to stop came,   it was already too late,   i just can’t imagine.   falling  to  your knees,  you blacked out,  your heart stopped,  dropping the rest of your pills all on the floor.   what was your final thought?   was it about the family who loved you?   or was it about the son,  that was sleeping,  in the room,  next to yours?   i could have stayed up,  possibly saving your life;   just by talking a little bit more,  but instead,   the words  of you liking my music and that how proud of me you were,  were the last i heard.   goodnight, son.   now,  the house that you grew up in, is now the house you died in.   i found you, dad,  in the morning as i woke.  lying in the corner, your face purple, breathless. wiping you face free from the vomit,  i try call for the help you needed,  i checked for your nonexistent pulse,  and it was all too late.  and all the memories, flashed before me,   as shock covered its dark cloak over my face.   your eyes were open, but you didn’t see me try to help.  as your body was carried out,  covered in a black bag,   again, shock covered its cloak upon me,  but this time it was on my life.   you felt alone,  but you weren’t alone.   i was your biggest fan.   there must have been something there,   that made you feel and think otherwise.   but sometimes i feel alone, dad.   and sometimes i think that there’s not much difference between you and me,   father and son.   but im not going to end my life because of momentary feelings.   if only i stayed up to talk more.  there wasnt a damn thing i could have done.   father and son. //  so what was your last thought as your final breath came?   that was what i was thinking,  as i stood from where i was sitting,  right by the same headstone i picked out thirteen years earlier.   i close my eyes, and take in a deep breath,  feeling the breeze,  the sunshine on my face,  knowing  it was you, giving me that hug,  you never were able to give me. . . . . . . .

c. 2012 BGW

About bradford graham west

enjoy poetry about life, emotion and everything in between. it's real and true. - please read and enjoy! - bgw
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